THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


PRESENTED  BY 

PROF.  CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 
MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


THE 


MISCELLANEOUS  WRITINGS 


OF 


F.  W.  P.  GREENWOOD,  D.  D. 


BOSTON: 

CHARLES  C.  LITTLE  AND  JAMES  BROWN. 


MDCCCXLVI. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1846,  by 

MARIA  GREENWOOD, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massa 
chusetts. 


BOSTON : 
PRINTED  BY  FREEMAN  AND  BOLLES, 

DEVONSHIRE   STREET. 


AC? 


PREFACE. 


IN  accordance  with  the  wish  of  some  of  the  friends 
of  my  late  father,  I  have  prepared  for  the  press  the 
following  hitherto  scattered  pieces  of  his  composition. 
They  were  originally  published,  during  his  lifetime, 
in  the  various  periodicals  of  the  day  ;  and  are  deemed 
worthy  of  a  more  accessible  form  than  that  in  which 
they  have  been,  in  effect,  buried.  The  present  volume 
is  offered  to  our  friends  in  the  idea  that  it  may  prove  an 
acceptable  addition  to  those  they  already  possess  from 
the  same  author,  and  with  the  hope  that  it  will  be  re 
ceived  in  the  kind  spirit  they  have  been  wont  to  exer 
cise  towards  his  writings.  The  articles  are  placed, 
for  the  most  part,  in  the  order  in  which  they  first  ap 
peared. 

The  Journal,  at  the  commencement  of  the  book, 
written  during  a  residence  in  England,  when  ill  health 
first  compelled  my  father  to  leave  home,  will  probably 
be  read  with  most  interest  by  those  who  knew  him 


M375215 


iV  PREFACE. 

intimately,  and  who  still  are  disposed  to  take  an  affec 
tionate  concern  in  all  that  relates  to  him.  Although, 
there  may  be  much  that  is  new  to  us,  in  the  parts  of  the 
country  in  which  he  travelled,  and  the  objects  which 
he  best  loved  to  describe,  still  its  prevailing  char 
acteristic  is  the  same  simplicity  and  pleasant  obser 
vation  which  distinguished  him  in  his  intercourse  with 
his  friends.-  They  may  possibly  find  something  in 
the  journal  to  refresh  their  memory  of  this  inter 
course.  Even  to  less  interested  readers,  however,  I 
hope  it  may  not  prove  unacceptable. 

F.  w.  G. 
AUGUST  15th,  1846. 


CONTENTS. 


JOURNAL. 

PAGE 
JOURNAL   KEPT   IN    ENGLAND    IS    1820-21  ....         1 

ESSAYS. 

THE    VILLAGE   GRAVE-YARD 191 

ETERNITY  OF  GOD     .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .199 

MILTON'S  PROSE  WORKS 208 

THE   SEA .  .  .227 

FEMALE   LITERATURE 240 

MORAL  EDUCATION 256 

RELIGION    OF    THE   SEA               .......  278 

FALLS   OF   THE   NIAGARA 290 

SPIRIT    OF   REFORM     .........  309 

STUDY   OF   NATURAL   HISTORY 342 

DUTIES    OF    WINTER 363 

THE   HOLY    LAND     .,,,,,,,,  375 

SPRING ....  387 


JOUENAL   KEPT  IN  ENGLAND 

IN    1820-21. 


MISCELLANIES. 


JOURNAL. 


AT    SEA. 

ON  the  first  of  May,  A.  D.  1820,  I  left  Boston 
for  Liverpool  in  the  packet  ship  Falcon.  Captain 
Lewis.  I  visit  Europe  for  the  benefit  of  my  health, 
and  while  abroad  I  shall  keep  a  record  of  such 
objects  and  occurrences  as  appear  to  me  worthy 
of  notice  and  remembrance.  I  may,  at  some 
future  period,  should  my  life  be  prolonged,  delight 
in  retracing  the  steps  of  my  pilgrimage,  and  re 
visiting,  in  imagination,  the  countries  from  which 
my  own  is  separated  by  a  rolling  ocean.  As  my 
journal  is  intended  but  for  a  few  eyes  beside  my 
own,  I  shall  not  hesitate  to  mention  anything 
because  it  has  been  mentioned  before,  and  would 
be  trite  and  uninteresting  to  many.  I  shall  speak 
my  impression  exactly  —  everything  will  be  new 
i 


2  MISCELLANIES. 

to  me,  and  will  be  interesting  to  those  who  I  am 
sure  are  interested  in  all  which  concerns  or  befalls 
me. 

May  20.  This  is  the  twentieth  day  since  our' 
departure,  and  we  have  not  yet  completed  a  half 
of  our  voyage.  With  the  exception  of  two  days, 
we  have  had  head  winds  all  the  time,  and  have 
been  driven  several  degrees  to  the  south  of  our 
proper  course.  The  weather  has  been  unusually 
rough  and  cold,  the  motion  of  the  ship  is  very 
disagreeable  to  me,  and  my  time  has  passed  but 
heavily.  When  the  wind  is  not  too  piercing,  and 
I  feel  sufficiently  alive,  I  keep  upon  deck  and 
amuse  myself  there  as  well  as  I  can.  I  love  to 
see  the  fearless  little  nautilus  spread  his  blue 
ribbed  sail  to  the  wind  and  ride  unhurt  over  the 
waves  and  foam,  and  I  feel  quite  grateful  when  a 
company  of  porpoises  will  come  and  gambol  for 
an  hour  or  two  round  the  vessel.  But  even  these 
are  sights  which  I  see  but  seldom,  and  after  I 
have  exhausted  all  my  stock  of  questions  about  the 
management  of  the  ship,  and  the  captain's  stock 
of  patience  too,  I  am  afraid,  by  asking  them,  I 
employ  myself  in  watching  the  billows  as  they 
curl  their  white  tops  and  chase  each  other  over 
the  deep.  We  have  had  much  rain,  and  once  it 
was  accompanied  by  thunder  and  lightning.  The 
lightning  was  vivid  and  the  thunder  was  heavy. 


JOURNAL.  6 

111  such  times  we  are  made  to  feel  how  weak  we 
are,  and  how  entirely  dependent  upon  the  Great 
Being  who  rules  the  storm. 

May  29,  The  captain  went  to  the  maintop  a 
few  minutes  before  12  o'clock,  to-day,  and  soon 
cried  out  "  Land  Ho  !  "  and  a  joyful  cry  it  was  to 
me,  for  I  was  worn  out  by  the  rolling  and  pitching 
of  the  vessel,  which  has  been  violent  and  continual, 
and  has  left  me  not  a  moment  of  ease.  The  wind 
has  been  favorable  for  the  last  eight  days,  and  in 
that  time  we  have  made  more  way  than  we  did 
for  the  first  twenty.  The  land  which  we  saw  was 
the  southern  coast  of  Ireland.  It  appeared  at  first 
like  a  faint  blue  spot,  scarcely  discernible  in  the 
horizon,  but  we  went  swiftly  through  the  waters 
and  it  opened  fast  upon  us.  The  shore  is  high 
and  looks  bleak  and  barren,  and  yet  on  the  top 
of  almost  every  mass  of  rock  is  perched  a  square 
stone  tower,  the  residence  of  some  Irish  land 
holder  —  if  landholder  he  might  be  called.  These 
are  the  first  buildings  of  the  castle  kind  I  ever  saw, 
and  as  novels  and  poems  and  romances  had  fur 
nished  me  with  a  multitude  of  associations,  I 
regarded  them  with  the  highest  pleasure,  although 
the  more  experienced  eye  of  an  European  would 
have  passed  them  unnoticed.  In  the  afternoon  we 
sailed  by  Cape  Clear,  the  southern  extremity  of 
Ireland,  and  at  11  o'clock  at  night  we  were  abreast 


4  MISCELLANIES. 

of  the  lighthouse  on  Tuskar  rock.  The  land 
begins  to  wear  a  more  favorable  appearance,  and 
with  a  spyglass,  I  can  see  from  the  deck  not  only 
the  castles,  churches,  and  huts,  but  the  cattle  and 
hedges,  and  now  and  then  a  man  at  work  in  the 
fields.  This  has  given  me  very  pleasant  occupa 
tion,  and  I  have  the  glass  in  my  hand  till  the 
daylight  dies  and  I  can  see  no  longer. 

May  30.  This  afternoon  we  spoke  with  a  ship 
from  Ayr,  a  town  on  the  west  coast  of  Scotland. 
Her  deck  was  crowded  with  natives  of  that  coun 
try,  going  to  be  disappointed  in  America.  As  I 
looked  upon  them,  their  wives  and  their  little  ones, 
I  pitied  them — pitied  them  for  the  distress  which , 
I  think,  must  have  driven  them  from  their  own 
land,  and  for  the  blighting  of  their  hopes  which 
I  know  awaits  them  in  ours.  When  I  went  to 
bed  to-night,  we  were  passing  the  Holyhead  and 
Skerries  lighthouses. 

May  31.  And  when  I  awoke  this  morning  it 
was  blowing  a  hard  gale,  and  I  saw  through  the 
cabin  window  a  pilot-boat  close  behind  us.  The 
sea  ran  high,  and  the  boat  was  directing  our  vessel 
to  a  sheltered  place  and  smoother  water.  The 
little  thing  dancing  about  on  the  waves,  her  hardy 
crew  with  close  caps,  oilcloth  surtouts  and  bluff, 
healthy  faces —  the  island  of  Anglesea  just  on  our 
side,  with  its  bold  rocky  shores3  clustered  farm- 


JOURNAL.  5 

houses  and  green  fields  and  hedges  —  formed  a 
view  which  was  to  me  most  novel  and  picturesque. 
When  we  came  into  a  calmer  sea,  our  captain 
backed  his  topsails,  and  the  pilot-boat  shot  up 
along  side  —  the  skill  with  which  it  was  steered 
so  very  close  under  our  vessel,  yet  without  touch 
ing  her,  delighted  me  —  our  steward  handed  one 
of  the  crew  a  bottle  of  rum,  which  appeared  to  be 
a  very  acceptable  present,  and  the  pilot  jumped 
aboard.  In  a  few  hours  we  entered  the  Mersey, 
but  it  rained  so  hard  that  I  had  no  view  of  Liver 
pool  till  we  were  just  opposite  to  it ;  and  when  I 
saw  it,  there  was  nothing  in  its  appearance  which 
struck  my  American  eye  as  strange.  Its  houses 
were  like  ours,  only  the  bricks  were  much  darker, 
and  it  had  the  usual  quantity  of  steeples,  though  to 
be  sure  an  unusual  quantity  of  windmills.  But 
when  we  entered  the  docks,  a  scene  presented 
itself  which  was  strange  enough.  Our  pilot  took 
an  elevated  station,  and  there  issued  his  commands 
with  a  voice  that  stunned  and  a  rapidity  that 
bewildered  the  poor  sailors ;  things  went  wrong, 
and  our  ship  swung  round  against  one  of  the 
piers.  She  was  no  sooner  within  jumping  distance 
from  the  shore,  than  a  flood  of  ragamuffins  of  both 
sexes  and  all  ages  poured  in  upon  us,  tendering 
their  unasked  and  needless  assistance,  and  height 
ening  the  general  confusion.  Our  captain  ran 
1* 


6  MISCELLANIES. 

about  and  puffed  and  scolded  and  swore  (and  to 
his  credit  be  it  spoken,  it  was  the  first  time  that  I 
had  heard  him  swear)  —  the  pilot  bawled  himself 
hoarse,  the  ropes  cracked,  and  all  was  noise  and 
chaos.  In  about  half  an  hour,  however,  we  had 
gained  a  place  in  the  King's  Dock,  without  suffer 
ing  any  damage,  and  the  captain  and  myself 
made  our  way  over  a  dozen  vessels,  to  the  shore. 
I  took  apartments  in  a  private  house,  and  after  a 
little  rest  walked  forth  to  see  the  city,  or  as 
much  of  it  as  I  could  in  an  hour  or  two.  As  I 
passed  through  the  streets,  my  attention  was  of 
course  directed  to  the  ladies,  and  I  could  not  help 
observing  how  gracefully  they  walked,  and  how 
much  more  firm,  assured  and  elastic  their  step  was 
than  that  of  my  countrywomen. 

June  5.  I  have  had  a  bad  specimen,  thus  far,  of 
English  summer  weather,  for  it  has  been  rainy  and 
cold  and  uncomfortable  ever  since  my  arrival.  On 
Sunday  evening  I  attended  divine  service  at  the 
chapel  of  the  Asylum  for  the  Blind.  The  objects 
of  this  charity  composed  the  choir,  and  they  sang 
extremely  well,  to  an  organ  which,  though  not 
uncommonly  large,  nor  uncommonly  fine,  perhaps, 
for  this  country,  was  yet  the  finest  that  I  had  ever 
heard.  The  strains  which  filled  the  church  and 
echoed  from  its  walls  affected  me  deeply,  and  I 
could  scarce  restrain  my  tears.  Independently  of 


JOURNAL.  f 

the  pleasure  which  music  always  gives  me,  it 
brings  to  my  mind  and  to  my  heart,  more  vividly 
and  touchingly  than  anything  else  can  do,  the 
recollection  of  my  distant  home,  my  kindred  and 
my  friends.  The  bad  weather  has  prevented  my 
going  to  the  Botanic  Garden,  which  is  a  little  way 
out  of  town. 

To-day  I  heard  Sir  James  Smith,  the  author  of 
an  Introduction  to  Botany,  &c.  deliver  a  lecture 
on  that  subject  at  the  Liverpool  Royal  Institution. 
His  manner  pleased  me,  for  though  it  cannot  be 
called  fluent,  as  he  often  hesitates  and  trips  in  his 
expressions,  it  is  very  clear,  interesting  and 
instructing.  He  makes  use  of  few  of  those  hard 
botanical  terms  which  would  only  perplex  a 
promiscuous  audience,  and  when  he  does  use 
them,  he  explains  their  meaning.  He  liberally 
enlivens  and  illustrates  his  subject  by  introducing 
notices  of  little  botanical  phenomena  and  nice 
adaptations  of  the  several  parts  of  plants  to  their 
situations  and  offices,  by  telling,  in  short,  what 
may  be  termed  botanical  anecdotes.  And  all 
lecturers,  particularly  upon  natural  science  and 
philosophy,  would  do  well  to  follow  the  same 
course,  if  they  wish  to  convey  information  and  fix 
the  attention  of  their  hearers.  I  was  introduced 
to  this  gentleman  after  the  lecture,  and  he  politely 
invited  me,  should  I  pass  that  way,  to  his  resi- 


8  MISCELLANIES. 

dence  in  Norwich.  The  Liverpool  Royal  Insti 
tution  is  on  a  useful  though  not  extensive  or  im 
posing  plan.  It  is  but  an  infant,  as  yet,  however, 
and  if  not  crushed  in  its  infancy,  may  come  to  a 
noble  manhood.  In  one  of  the  rgoms  of  this 
building  is  hung  a  series  of  original  paintings, 
exhibiting  the  rise  and  early  progress  of  the 
Italian  School.  This  curious  and  valuable  col 
lection  was  formed  by  Mr.  Roscoe  and  purchased 
at  the  sale  of  his  effects.  This  learned  and  worthy 
man,  this  honor  to  Liverpool,  is  still  so  embarrassed 
in  his  affairs,  that  he  secludes  himself  from  all  com 
pany,  and  I  did  not  therefore  attempt  to  see  him. 

While  I  was  in  a  shop  to-day,  a  man  came  in 
to  solicit  charity.  "  The  taxes  are  very  high"  said 
the  woman,  "  and  I  can  give  you  nothing."  In 
my  own  country  no  one  could  have  made  this 
excuse,  and  so  the  answer  would  have  been,  "  I 
can  give  you  nothing,  for  the  times  are  very  hard." 

June  13.  For  the  past  week  I  have  been  resid 
ing  with  the  family  of  a  merchant  in  this  place,  to 
whose  hospitality  I  am  much  indebted,  and  for 
which,  I  hope,  I  shall  ever  feel  grateful.  Kind 
attentions  are  always  highly  acceptable  to  the 
traveller  and  stranger ;  but  never  so  much  so,  as 
when  he  leaves  for  the  first  time  his  own  country, 
and  arrives  for  the  first  time  in  another,  when  he 
feels  doubtful  of  his  reception,  and  thankful  for 


JOURNAL.  9 

the  least  marks  of  regard.  The  gentleman  whom 
I  have  mentioned  owns  an  estate  in  Shropshire, 
which  he  is  accustomed  to  visit  once  in  every 
year  ;  and  this  being  the  season  for  his  excursion, 
I  was  invited  to  accompany  the  family  into  the 
country.  The  invitation  was  heartily  given  and 
readily  accepted.  I  should  at  any  rate  have  de 
sired  to  pass  a  few  days  in  the  quiet  of  retirement, 
enjoying  the  luxury  of  pure  air,  and  observing 
the  manners  of  the  English  yeomanry,  but  beside 
being  furnished  with  such  an  opportunity,  I  should 
at  the  same  time  be  advanced  sixty  miles  on 
my  way  to  London.  We  were  detained  by  rain 
several  days  after  the  time  which  was  appointed 
for  our  journey,  but  to-day,  about  two  o'clock, 
we  left  Liverpool.  Ourselves  and  carriage  were 
taken  over  the  Mersey  in  a  steamboat  and  landed 
at  Birkenhead.  On  the  shore  and  a  little  to  the 
right  of  our  road  there  are  the  ruins  of  a  church 
or  abby ;  but  though  all  such  things  excite  in  me 
a  lively  interest,  I  could  not  stop  to  inquire  about 
or  examine  them.  In  riding  along  I  was  every 
moment  reminded  of  my  being  in  a  foreign  land. 
The  stage  coaches  which  whirled  past  us,  crammed 
within  and  covered  without,  in  such  a  manner  by 
passengers  and  baggage,  that  a  stone  of  a  middling 
size,  lying  in  the  road  and  encountering  a  wheel, 
would  most  surely  have  upset  them  —  the  fields 
intersected  in  every  direction  by  hedges  instead 


10  MISCELLANIES. 

of  stone  walls  —  the  cottages  built  of  brick  or 
stone,  instead  of  wood,  and  roofed  with  thatch  in 
stead  of  shingles  —  the  church  steeples  formed  of 
stone  to  the  summit  and  patched  with  ivy  to  the 
very  weathercock  —  all  these  were  features  in  the 
prospect  which  the  face  of  my  own  country  does 
not  present,  and  which  therefore  were  strange  to 
the  eyes  of  her  son.  We  supped  and  lodged  at 
Chester.  This  place  is  remarkable  on  many  ac 
counts.  It  is  of  great  antiquity,  it  is  a  bishop's  see, 
and  it  is  the  only  city  in  England  whose  walls  are 
entire.  We  entered  it  by  the  north  gate  ;  which 
is  a  neat  stone  arch,  and,  as  well  as  the  other  gates, 
of  modern  structure. 

June  14.  Early  this  morning  I  took  a  walk 
upon  the  walls.  The  prospect  from  them  is  on 
all  sides  beautiful,  and  they  form  a  delightful 
promenade  for  the  citizens,  who,  appearing  to  be 
sensible  of  their  value,  at  least  in  this  respect, 
keep  them  in  good  preservation.  Between  the 
east  and  north  gates  there  is  a  tower,  joined  to 
and  projecting  from  the  walls,  which  bears  the 
date  of  1613,  and  from  which  I  copied  the  follow 
ing  inscription  : 

KING    CHARLES 
STOOD    ON    THIS    TOWER, 
SEPT.  24,   1645,  AND    SAW 
HIS    ARMY    DEFEATED 

ON    ROWTON    MOOR. 


JOURNAL.  1 1 

This  moor  is  about  eight  miles  to  the  southeast 
of  Chester.  A.  locked  gate,  at  the  bottom  of  the 
staircase  which  led  to  the  tower,  forbade  my 
ascending  to  it,  and  I  was  thus  prevented  from 
following  the  footsteps  of  majesty.  Under  the 
walls,  at  the  western  side,  there  is  a  handsome 
race-ground  ;  and  beauty  and  fashion  and  child 
hood  and  age  assemble  to  witness  an  innocent 
contention  of  animal  speed  from  the  top  of  those 
very  battlements,  where  once  armed  men  were 
planted  to  meet  armed  men  in  mortal  combat, 
where  the  father  and  the  husband  and  the  son 
and  the  brother  and  the  lover,  fought  and  strug 
gled  and  bled  for  the  lives  and  honor  of  the  dear 
ones  who  were  trembling  and  weeping  at  home, 
while  the  sudden  shock  of  the  battering  engines 
made  the  solid  foundations  reel,  and  instead  of 
the  glad  and  eager  cheering,  there  was  the  quick 
command  and  the  earnest  exhortation  and  the 
proud  defiance  and  the  exulting  shout  and  the 
dying  groan.  Descending  from  the  walls,  I  en 
tered  what  are  called  the  Rows.  These  are  covered 
walks,  in  the  principal  streets,  formed  by  a  pro 
jection  of  the  houses,  or  rather  by  the  retiring  of 
their  second  stories.  It  is  as  if  the  front  rooms 
on  the  second  floor  were  given  up  to  the  public 
by  breaking  down  that  part  of  the  house  side 
which  closed  them  from  the  street  and  supporting 


12  MISCELLANIES. 

the  pile  which  was  thus  left  hanging  over,  by 
small  wooden  pillars.  You  are  in  this  manner 
shaded  from  a  scorching  sun,  or  sheltered  from 
the  pelting  rain  or  biting  wind.  But  a  stranger, 
who  is  not  informed  beforehand  of  this  comfort, 
may  lose  the  advantage  of  it  entirely,  and  I  had 
taken  several  long  walks  in  the  narrow  and  dirty 
streets,  before  I  was  told  that  I  might  walk  on  a 
dry  floor,  and  look  down  from  an  eminence  of  six 
or  eight  feet  on  all  their  mud  and  bustle.  I 
shaped  my  course  for  the  cathedral.  It  is,  I  was 
informed,  one  of  the  shabbiest  in  the  kingdom ; 
but  it  was  the  first  which  I  had  ever  seen  and  I 
approached  it  with  reverence.  It  is  built  in  the 
common  form,  that  of  a  cross;  and  the  mate 
rial  is  a  very  soft  and  friable  reddish-colored  free 
stone  ;  so  soft  and  friable,  that  they  are  con 
stantly  repairing  it ;  they  were  at  work  upon  it  at 
this  time,  and  as  they  make  use  of  the  same  kind 
of  stone  in  their  repairs,  the  labor  will  never  be 
finished.  The  interior  is  gloomy  and  damp  and 
chilling,  the  floor  is  dirty,  the  fretted  roof  has 
fallen,  and  left  the  wood- work  bare.  At  the  height 
of  twenty  feet,  perhaps,  from  the  ground,  there 
is  a  jog  in  the  walls  on  each  side  of  about  two  or 
three  feet,  as  near  as  I  could  judge,  making  a 
kind  of  foot-path  ;  and  as  this  path  is  interrupted  at 
intervals  by  the  buttresses,  a  small  arch  is  made 


JOURNAL.  13 

through  each  of  them.  These  passages  are  the 
galleries,  and  through  these  we  may  suppose  that 
the  friars  used  to  pass  and  repass  to  and  from 
their  accustomed  offices.  I  looked  up  and  gazed 
till  I  could  almost  imagine  I  saw  a  brother  in  his 
cowl  glide  silently  along,  appearing  and  disap 
pearing,  till  he  vanished  through  the  last  aperture 
—  but  no  —  they  have  long  since  been  swept 
away,  and  their  tapers  are  extinguished,  and  their 
chanting  is  hushed,  and  their  prayers  are  said ; 
and  it  seemed  to  me,  at  the  moment,  as  if  a 
huge  edifice  like  this  were  only  fitted  to  the  service 
of  that  religion  for  which  it  was  first  erected  ;  and 
that  when  her  spirit  had  been  forced  to  abandon 
the  sanctuary,  with  all  her  sweeping  train  of  shows 
and  ceremonies,  she  had  thrown  back  her  male 
diction  on  its  walls,  and  given  them  up  to  darkness 
and  coldness  and  silence  forever.  That  part  of 
the  cathedral  of  which  I  have  been  speaking  is 
called  the  nave :  it  occupies  the  greater  portion  of 
the  building,  and  appears  to  serve  no  other  purpose 
than  that  of  a  grand  entrance,  and  a  receptacle 
for  tombs.  Among  the  monumental  tablets  I 
observed  one  to  the  memory  of  Archdeacon 
Travis,  who  defended  the  indefensible  text  of  the 
three  heavenly  witnesses,  i  John  v.  7,  and  against 
whom  Porson  wrote  a  complete  and  most  learned 
reply.  At  the  end  of  the  great  aisle,  a  door  opens 
2 


14  MISCELLANIES. 

into  the  choir,  that  part  of  the  house  which  is  set 
off  for  public  worship  —  and  it  is  a  very  small 
part.  On  the  left  side,  and  in  the  centre,  is  the 
pulpit,  and  immediately  opposite  is  the  episcopal 
throne,  in  the  form  of  a  pulpit,  painted  white,  and 
gilt.  On  the  right  and  left  of  the  door  are  the 
pews  of  the  dignitaries,  or  prebendaries'  stalls, 
which  are  denoted  on  the  walls  by  painted  letters, 
in  this  way,  DIACONUS  I.  &c.  In  one  of  the 
rooms  into  which  I  was  led,  and  with  the  name  of 
which  I  was  not  acquainted  —  though  I  hope  to 
grow  wiser  in  these  matters  as  I  go  along  —  were 
the  tombs  of  some  of  the  old  abbots,  and  a  large 
stone  coffin  or  chest  inclosing  a  leaden  one.  This, 
the  boy  who  accompanied  me  said  was  the  tomb 
of  a  German  emperor  —  a  story  which  I  did  not 
see  fit  to  believe ;  — but  as  there  was  no  inscription, 
and  I  had  no  other  means  of  information,  I  sub 
mitted  to  remain  ignorant.  In  another  room  was 
a  fragment  of  a  stone  coffin,  which  had  been  dug 
up  in  the  cathedral,  and  which  had  contained,  ac 
cording  to  my  guide,  the  ashes  of  Hugh  Lupus, 
the  first  earl  of  Chester.  This  I  did  believe,  for 
there  was  a  wolf's  head  rudely  sculptured  on  the 
stone,  and  below  it  a  monogram,  or  knot  of  letters, 
which,  when  properly  picked  out  and  joined  in 
order  together,  would  make,  I  was  assured,  the 
name  Hugh  Lupus.  This  was  a  piece  of  business, 


JOURNAL.  15 

however,  for  which  I  had  no  time,  and  giving  the 
boy  a  shilling  I  left  the  cathedral. 

Taking  up  our  journey,  we  turned  from  the 
public  road,  in  order  to  pass  through  the  pretty 
village  of  Gresford.  Here  there  is  an  old  church, 
which,  while  our  horses  rested,  my  curiosity 
prompted  me  to  enter,  mine  host  bearing  the 
keys.  There  is  some  delicate  carved  work  just 
before  you  come  to  the  pulpit,  and  much  of  the 
painted  glass  is  preserved,  and  secured  from  future 
injury  as  far  as  possible  by  wire  net-work  placed 
on  the  outside  of  the  windows.  I  noticed,  beside 
several  neat  monuments  in  the  modern  style,  a 
droll-looking  one  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
which  immediately  put  me  in  mind  of  the  engrav 
ings  of  such  funeral  effigies  as  I  had  seen  in  mag 
azines,  &c.  before  I  ever  thought  to  see  their  origi 
nals.  It  was  a  monument  to  the  memory  of  Sir 
Richard  Trevor,  who  was  represented  in  a  recum 
bent  position,  with  his  head  and  shoulders  and  the 
pommel  of  his  sword  in  one  niche,  and  his  legs  and 
the  end  of  his  sword  sticking  out  from  the  side  of 
another  ;  while  the  solid  space  which  divided  these 
niches,  and  severed  in  so  sad  a  manner  the  greater 
part  of  the  poor  knight's  body,  wTas  dedicated  to 
the  setting  forth,  in  pure  Welsh,  of  his  virtues, 
valor,  &c.  To  crown  the  whole,  his  eyes, 
cheeks,  painted  beard  and  huge  whiskers,  were 


16  MISCELLANIES. 

colored,  and  the  rest  of  his  face  left  in  the  native 
whiteness  of  the  marble.  He  cut  a  most  ghastly 
figure,  to  be  sure.  Among  the  little  spires,  on  the 
top  of  the  tower,  I  discerned,  on  coming  out,  a 
number  of  images,  some  with  mitres  on  their 
heads,  some  with  cowls,  and  some  with  three- 
cornered  hats  and  wigs.  This  singular  company, 
representing,  as  I  was  told,  the  twelve  apostles, 
were  of  the  same  height  with  the  pyramidical 
spires,  and  at  a  short  distance  could  not  be  distin 
guished  from  them.  The  cornice  all  around,  under 
the  eaves  of  the  church,  was  filled  with  all  sorts  of 
animals,  carved  in  relief:  elephants,  alligators,  mice, 
owls,  and  sundry  others  for  which  it  would  be  hard 
to  find  a  name  ;  and  the  sponts  which  conducted 
the  water  from  the  roof  were  shaped  into  lions' 
mouths,  birds'  beaks  and  other  forms,  some  of 
which  were  indecent  as  well  as  grotesque.  The 
bells  of  this  church  are  famous  for  their  melody, 
but  we  had  not  the  good  luck  to  hear  them.  We 
stopped  for  the  night  at  Overton. 

June  15.  At  Elsemere  we  breakfasted,  but 
made  no  stay  ;  reached  Shrewsbury  to  dinner,  and 
proceeded  in  the  afternoon  to  Wrentnall,  a  small 
township  in  the  parish  of  Pulverbatch,  eight  miles 
from  Shrewsbury.  Here  lies  the  estate  of  my 
friend,  Mr.  F.  It  is  pleasantly  situated  on  a  hill, 
and  in  the  midst  of  hills.  To  the  north-east  there 


JOURNAL.  17 

is  a  view  of  Shrewsbury,  and  the  Wrekin  lifts  it 
self  up  in  the  eastern  horizon.  This  hill  is  well 
known  in  connection  with  the  well-known  toast  of 
"  All  friends  round  the  Wrekin." 

June  20.  In  this  retreat  I  have  spent  several 
delightful  days,  and  in  delightful  society.  I  have 
a  horse  at  my  service,  on  whose  back  I  explore 
the  country  in  all  directions.  The  people,  as  far 
as  I  have  seen  them,  are  moral,  contented,  civil 
and  obliging.  They  attend  the  parish  church  reg 
ularly,  where  their  behavior  is  decent  and  devout, 
and  bring  their  children  with  them,  who  are  all  put 
together  and  instructed  to  read  the  responses 
clearly  and  correctly.  They  are  far  more  humble 
in  their  manners  than  the  American  country-peo 
ple  ;  and  when  they  accost  you  in  the  road  it  is  with 
a  respectful  manner,  with  hat  in  hand,  and  not 
with  a  familiar  nod  of  equality,  as  is  the  case  with 
the  New  England  farmer,  if  he  thinks  it  worth  his 
while  to  accost  you  at  all.  There  is  such  a  thing 
as  being  civil  without  being  servile,  I  know  ;  but  it 
struck  me  that  the  bow  of  the  poor  man  in  Eng 
land  to  a  gentleman  was  rather  too  low  to  be 
made  to  a  being  of  the  same  order  in  the  creation 
as  himself ;  and  though  I  am  disposed  to  think  that 
the  poor  man  in  America  is  often  more  pert  than 
is  becoming,  I  would  rather  see  him  err  on  this 
side  than  on  the  other.  Wealth  and  talents  must 

2* 


18  MISCELLANIES. 

always  make  an  aristocracy  in  society,  let  the  form 
of  government  be  what  it  will,  and  they  must 
always  command  as  much  respect  as  is  their  due ; 
the  only  fear  is  that  they  may  exact  more.  There 
is  by  no  means  so  wide  a  difference  made  by  na 
ture  in  our  race,  that  a  tithe  of  mankind  are  to  be 
looked  up  to  as  gods  and  the  nine  other  parts  to 
be  spit  upon  as  dogs  ;  and  therefore  it  is,  that  I 
dislike  to  see  a  man  exhibit  the  least  symptom  of 
forgetting  his  manhood  and  the  respect  which  he 
should  pay  to  his  own  self.  I  am  no  leveller.  I 
am  sure  that  the  head  should  think  and  govern, 
and  that  the  hands  and  feet  should  work  and  walk, 
because  God  and  nature  intended  these  to  be  their 
proper  offices.  I  dread  a  mob  ;  but  even  the  ex 
cesses  of  a  mob  are  but  the  uneducated  and  misdi 
rected  impulses  of  a  high  and  natural  feeling, 
which  becomes  dangerous  and  dreadful  only  be 
cause  it  wants  the  means  of  education  and  direc 
tion,  and  bursts  forth  with  fury  only  because  it 
suffers  an  ignominious,  galling  and  unnatural  con 
finement.  Thus  it  is  that  in  the  republic  of  Amer 
ica  we  have  no  fear  of  mobs,  while  in  the  monarch 
ies  of  England  and  France  they  are  under  con 
stant  apprehensions  from  their  violence.  In  the 
former  country,  the  constitution  of  society  gives 
to  every  man  as  much  importance  as  he  ought  to 
have,  and,  generally  speaking,  as  much  as  he  wants  ; 


JOURNAL.  19 

while,  under  the  latter  governments,  the  low  are 
perpetually  envying  the  high  for  distinctions  which 
the  high  are  determined  to  withhold  from  them. 
Though  I  think  what  I  have  said  is  in  general  true, 
yet  I  do  not  mean  to  apply  it  too  strictly  to  the 
people  among  whom  I  now  reside.  They  certainly 
appeared,  as  I  have  observed,  to  be  contented, 
and,  though  civil,  not  servile.  I  was  led  into  the 
above  remarks  by  the  difference  which  I  observed 
between  their  manners  and  those  of  my  country 
men —  a  difference  which  becomes  wider  and 
more  remarkable  when  we  carry  our  reflections 
from  the  calmness  of  a  sequestered  village  to 
more  extensive  scenes  of  action,  and  fields  where 
the  passions  are  more  severely  provoked  and  more 
frequently  roused. 

WRENTNALL,  near  Shrewsbury, 
DEAR  PARENTS,  JUNE  28,  1820. 

This  is  Mr.  F 's  country  place,  to  which 

you  know  I  told  you  I  was  going.  I  left  Liver 
pool  about  the  middle  of  this  month,  while  the 
weather  was  still  unsettled  ;  and  we  had  frequent 
rain  till  some  days  ago,  when  it  cleared  up,  and  has 
continued  quite  warm  and  dry  ever  since.  The 
first  large  town  through  which  we  came,  on  our 
journey  here,  was  Chester.  It  is  the  only  city  in 
England  whose  wralls  are  perfect.  We  entered 
by  one  of  the  gates,  which  has  been  lately  rebuilt, 


20  MISCELLANIES. 

and  is  now  only  an  arch,  without  any  real  gate, 
because  there  is  now  no  need  of  one.  All  the 
houses  are  of  brick  or  stone,  and  look  quite  old  and 
gloomy,  and  the  streets  are  narrow  and  very  dirty. 
It  gives  name  to  a  bishoprick,  and  therefore  has  a 
cathedral.  This  is  a  huge  building,  constructed  of 
a  soft  red  stone,  which  the  rain  and  the  scythe  of 
father  Time  are  continually  at  work  upon,  and  it 
was  undergoing  extensive  repairs  while  I  was 
there.  I  found  out  a  person  to  show  me  the  in 
side,  and  though  it  was  extremely  damp  and  shab 
by,  I  was  struck  with  its  size  and  construction,  so 
different  from  the  appearance  of  our  own  smaller 
and  simpler  houses  of  worship.  There  are  many 
divisions  of  the  interior  space,  the  names  of  which 
I  am  not  yet  learned  enough  to  give  you  ;  suffice 
it  to  say,  that  the  part  devoted  to  religious  service 
is  a  very  small  portion  of  the  whole.  In  this  is 
the  bishop's  throne,  which  is  merely  a  gilt  pulpit. 
The  floor  of  every  part  almost  is  made  up  of 
grave-stones,  so  that  you  cannot  take  a  step  with 
out  treading  over  the  sleepers.  This  cathedral  is 
many  hundred  years  old.  The  top  of  the  city 
walls  is  railed  in,  and  forms  a  very  clean  and  beau 
tiful  walk,  from  which  you  have  a  view  of  the  sur 
rounding  country.  After  we  left  Chester  we  went 
to  see  Eaton  Hall,  the  seat  of  Lord  Grosvenor,  a 
few  miles  out  of  the  city.  Perhaps  you  know  that 


JOURNAL.  21 

a  great  many  of  the  noblemen's  seats  are  what 
they  call  show-houses ;  that  is,  they  are  shown  at 
certain  times  to  visiters,  by  the  servants,  who  gain 
a  very  handsome  perquisite  by  it.  The  old  house 
keeper  of  Warwick  Castle,  they  say,  has  laid  up 
in  her  lifetime  no  less  than  thirty  thousand  pounds 
by  this  profitable  business.  Eaton  Hall  is  a  mod 
ern  building  of  gray  stone,  and  in  the  castle  style. 
After  passing  the  porter's  lodge,  which  stands  on 
the  road,  we  drove  two  miles  through  the  park 
before  we  came  to  the  house.  A  neat  pretty-look 
ing  young  woman,  with  a  white  apron  and  white 
cap,  (and  all  the  servants  and  lower  order  of  women 
here  wear  plain  white  caps)  came  to  the  door  and 
carried  us  through  the  apartments.  They  are 
among  the  most  splendid  in  the  kingdom,  and  I 
only  wish  that  A.  and  little  Dot  could  have  seen 
them  too  —  for  as  to  my  part  I  would  much  rather 
see  some  rusty  piece  of  antiquity  than  the  most 
costly  palace  in  the  world  —  but  the  children  could 
not  help  being  delighted  with  all  this  magnificence. 
First  there  was  the  hall  of  entrance,  with  a  gallery 
around  it,  and  the  windows  emblazoned  with  the 
various  coats  of  arms  of  the  family  in  painted 
glass ;  and  white  marble  chimney-pieces,  most 
delicately  carved  into  gothic  arches  and  flowers 
and  heads ;  and  in  the  middle  of  the  hall  hung  a 
chandelier,  which  cost  fifteen  hundred  guineas. 


22  MISCELLANIES. 

Then  we  went  into  the  library,  and  the  first  draw 
ing-room,  and  the  second  drawing-room,  and  the 
billiard-room,  and  the  dining-room,  and  the  music- 
saloon,  and  I  don't  know  what  else.  In  all  these 
rooms  there  were  paintings  by  West  and  other 
masters,  and  chandeliers  and  tables  of  rosewood 
and  sandal- wood  and  ebony  inlaid  with  brass ; 
and  the  grim  old  ancestors  of  the  family  were 
stained  on  the  windows ;  and  the  walls  of  the  room, 
instead  of  being  painted  or  covered  with  paper, 
were  hung  with  the  richest  silks  and  damasks. 
Lord  Grosvenor  can  wrell  do  all  this,  for  his  in 
come  is  one  hundred  thousand  pounds  per  year. 
We  resumed  our  journey,  and  passing  through 
Wrexham  and  Elsemere  in  Wales,  and  Shrews 
bury  the  county  town  of  Shropshire,  reached  this 
place,  which  is  about  eight  miles  from  Shrewsbury. 
I  have  been  here  a  fortnight,  and  spent  the  time 
very  happily.  If  Mr.  and  Mrs.  F.  were  my  fa 
ther  and  mother  they  could  not  be  kinder  to  me 
than  they  are.  My  health  is  improving,  though  I 
am  still  quite  weak  and  have  had  some  bad  head 
aches.  I  ride  out,  on  one  of  Mr.  F.'s  horses,  every 
day,  or  else  in  his  phaeton  with  him  and  some 
young  ladies  who  are  staying  here.  I  have  been 
once  to  Shrewsbury,  which  is  one  of  the  oldest 
cities  in  England,  and  went  to  see  the  old  Abbey 
church.  There  is  a  very  correct  picture  of  it  in 


JOURNAL.  23 

the  book  I  gave  Mary  S.  —  it  is  called  there,  I 
believe,  Shrewsbury  Abbey.  Though  I  have  not 
marked  this  letter  as  private,  I  hardly  think  it  will 
be  worth  while  to  show  it,  because  I  have  written 
it  merely  to  inform  you  how  and  where  I  am,  and 
to  give  some  amusement  to  the  children.  A  ves 
sel  has  lately  arrived  at  Liverpool  from  Boston, 
'and  I  was  surprised  to  find  it  brought  me  no  let 
ters.  This  will  not  do.  I  told  you  in  my  last  that 
you  would  not  hear  from  me  before  I  was  in  Lon 
don,  but  my  stay  here  being  longer  than  I  expect 
ed,  you  see  I  have  been  better  than  my  word. 
Give  my  love  to  all  the  children  and  every  friend. 
Your  affectionate  son, 

FRANCIS. 

To  Miss  E C .  JUNE  26,  1820. 

To  show  you,  my  dear  friend,  that  I  am  not 
only  eager  to  perform  my  promise  of  writing  to 
you,  but  that  I  feel  grateful  for  the  frank  manner 
in  which  you  requested  a  correspondence,  I  ad 
dress  you  as  soon  as  I  am  recovered  from  my  fa 
tigues,  and  date  from  a  place  in  which  I  have  been 
happy.  It  is  a  retired  little  township  called 
Wrentnall  —  for  which  you  might  search  vainly 
in  the  map,  but  it  lies  eight  miles  from  Shrewsbury  ; 
and  as  you  may  be  curious  of  further  particulars, 
I  can  inform  you  that,  while  I  now  hold  the  pen, 
it  lacks  fifteen  minutes  of  noon  by  Shrewsbury 


24  MISCELLANIES. 

clock.  I  am  among  lovely  hills  and  kind  friends  ; 
but  though  such  a  situation  must  needs  be  pleas 
ant,  a  sigh  will  come,  when  I  am  thinking,  as  I 
now  am,  of  the  lovelier  hills  of  Milton  and  the 
friends  who  are  dwelling  somewhere  about  them. 
There  are  famous  places  here  in  England,  and 
famous  people,  and  fine  old  churches  and  bright 
green  fields  —  but  there  is  nothing  like  home,  after 
all ;  and  though  I  am,  by  no  means,  what  you  may 
call  home-sick,  yet  I  do  long  to  see  it,  already. 
However,  here  I  am,  and  here  I  shall  stay,  till  the 
object  for  which  I  came,  if  it  is  to  be  answered,  is 
answered.  And  now,  my  friend,  what  shall  I  tell 
you  about  ?  The  ocean  ?  O,  it  is  a  wondrous 
thing,  and  my  soul  was  never  moved  so  strongly 
as  when  I  came  on  deck,  the  first  morning,  and 
found  myself  on  the  vasty  deep  in  the  midst  of  a 
heaven-bound  circle,  and  confined  to  a  bark  which 
the  magnificence  around  it  had  caused  to  shrink 
into  the  dimensions  of  a  nutshell.  And  when  the 
sky  became  darkened,  and  a  mighty  wind  moved 
upon  the  face  of  the  waters,  I  looked  over  the  rail 
ing  and  realized  the  full  force  of  the  Scripture  ex 
pressions  which  make  the  sea  lift  up  its  voice  and 
clap  its  hands. 

Liverpool  is  a  city  of  merchants,  and  had 
but  little  for  me  to  see,  and  still  less  to  tell  of. 
A  brother-in-law  of  Mr.  W.  W.  was  so  good 


JOURNAL.  25 

as  to  invite  me  to  his  country  seat,  whither  I 
accompanied  him  and  his  family,  and  where  I  have 
been  staying  a  fortnight,  and  may  perhaps  stay  ten 
days  more.  Nothing  pleases  me  more  in  the  coun 
try  than  the  hedges,  which  are  the  boundaries  of 
every  field  and  the  fences  of  every  lane.  They  are 
formed  principally  of  the  hawthorn,  but  with  a 
plentiful  intermixture  of  wild-rose,  sweetbriar  and 
holly,  with  its  "  polished  leaves  and  berries  red." 
I  can  walk  at  this  season  into  any  green  lane  and 
in  a  few  moments  make  up  a  broad  nosegay  of 
the  flowers  which  grow  under  the  hedges,  and 
such  a  classical  nosegay  too  —  the  daisy,  the  hya 
cinth,  the  foxglove,  the  rose  and  the  harebell, 
with  a  plenty  more.  The  harebell  is  certainly 
the  most  beautiful  wild-flower  I  ever  set  eyes  on. 
I  have  left  out  the  honeysuckle,  which  also  climbs 
wild  upon  the  hedges. 

Staying  in  the  same  house  with  me,  as  fellow 
guests,  are  three  Liverpool  ladies,  one  of  whom 
is  the  second  daughter  of  Mr.  Roscoe,  who, 
with  her  sister,  has  published,  some  little  poems, 
which  have  been  republished,  I  believe,  in  Boston. 
She  is  full  of  conversation,  animation,  imagination 
and  poetry  —  indeed,  she  is  very  like  your  own 
self.  I  have  one  request  to  make  you.  I  wish 
you  to  send  me,  when  you  are  so  good  and  con 
siderate  as  to  answer  this,  two  or  three  or  more 
3 


26  MISCELLANIES. 

of  your  poetical  pieces,  particularly  "  The  Ice 
Spirit."  Think  how  far  I  am  from  home  and  you 
will  not,  you  cannot  refuse  me.  I  will  never  show 
them  where  it  would  be  in  the  least  improper  to 
do  so.  When  you  meet  with  any  of  my  friends, 
tell  them  that  my  dearest  thoughts  are  about  them. 

and and will  see  that  I  subscribe 

myself 

Their,  as  well  as  your, 

affectionate  friend, 

F.  W.  P.  GREENWOOD. 

June  23.  To-day  a  party  of  us  rode  over  to 
Shrewsbury.  This  is  one  of  the  most  ancient 
towns  in  England.  Its  foundation  is  supposed  to 
have  been  laid  as  far  back  as  the  fifth  century,  and, 
till  they  were  forced  to  desert  it,  it  was  a  royal 
residence  of  the  ancient  Welsh.  The  Saxon  name 
was  Scrobbes-byrig,  which  has  been  softened  into 
Shrewsbury  ;  it  is  also  called  Salop,  which  name 
is  given  to  the  county  likewise,  as  well  as  that  of 
Shropshire.  Its  situation  is  beautiful  and  com 
manding.  It  stands  on  a  peninsula  formed  by 
the  Severn,  and  the  isthmus  is  defended  by  an 
ancient  castle.  Detached  portions  of  the  old  city- 
wall  are  remaining,  together  with  one  of  its  towers, 
which  is  now,  without  any  external  alteration, 
converted  into  a  small  dwelling-house.  On  the 


JOURNAL.  27 

western  side  of  the  town  is  a  beautiful  public 
walk,  bounded  by  the  Severn,  and  consisting  of 
several  avenues  of  luxuriant  lime-trees,  which, 
though  planted  in  the  year  1719,  have  the  vigor 
and  foliage  of  youth.  The  river  does  not  appear 
to  be  more  than  thirty  yards  wide,  and  it  is  crossed 
by  two  handsome  stone  bridges.  A  town,  situated 
like  this,  we  should  naturally  suppose  would  be 
healthy,  and  accordingly  Speed  says  of  it  — 
"  Wholesome  is  the  air,  delectable  and  goodfv 
yielding  the  spring  and  the  autumn,  seedtime 
and  harvest,  in  a  temperate  condition,  and  afford- 
eth  health  to  the  inhabitants  in  all  seasons  of  the 
year."  I  must  here  confess  that  I  picked  up  this 
quotation  by  accident,  and  that  it  was  the  fruit  of 
no  investigation  of  my  own  into  the  folio  pages  of 
that  venerable  chronicler.  But  every  body  knows 
that  this  town  is  famous  for  the  battles  which  have 
been  fought  before  its  walls,  particularly  for  the 
memorable  one  between  Henry  IV.  and  Percy, 
Glendower  and  Douglas : 

'•'Douglas  !  whose  high  deeds, 
Whose  hot  incursions,  and  great  name  in  arms, 
Hold  from  all  soldiers  chief  majority, 
And  military  title  capital, 
Through  all  the  kingdoms  that  acknowledge  Christ." 

This  battle  secured  to  Henry  the  crown,  and  to 
the  house  of  Lancaster  the  throne,  and  gave  Shaks- 


28  MISCELLANIES. 

peare  a  subject  for  his  immortal  verse,  who  has 
also  handed  down  to  us  the  still  more  terrible  en 
counter  between  the  puissant  Sir  John  Falstaif  and 
the  fiery  Hotspur,  which  lasted  a  long  hour  by 
Shrewsbury  clock. 

As  I  have  a  great  passion  for  old  churches, 
I  visited  one  which  stood  on  the  eastern  bank 
of  the  Severn,  opposite  the  English  Bridge,  and 
is  called  the  Abbey  Church,  having  belonged 
4o  the  magnificent  and  extensive  Abbey  of  St. 
Peter  and  St.  Paul.  It  is  built  of  the  same  kind 
of  dark  red  stone  as  the  Cathedral  of  Chester. 
Its  tower  is  simple,  but  well-proportioned,  and  con 
tains  a  fine  large  window,  the  glass  of  which  is 
painted  with  different  devices  and  coats  of  arms. 
The  eye  is  caught,  upon  entering  this  church,  by  a 
window  at  the  eastern  end,  on  which  are  painted 
figures,  as  large  as  life,  of  St.  Peter  and  Paul,  King 
Solomon,  &c.,  the  effect  of  which  is  very  good. 
The  painting  on  this  window  is  modern,  while  that 
of  the  former  and  of  several  smaller  ones  is  ancient. 
There  are  several  old  monuments  in  this  church  ; 
one  of  which  is  supposed,  but  on  no  very  good 
authority,  to  be  that  of  Roger  de  Montgomery, 
the  founder  of  the  Abbey,  and  a  kinsman  of 
William  the  Conqueror.  There  is  also  a  tomb 
belonging  to  the  Onslow  family,  on  which  are  rep 
resented  recumbent  figures  of  Richard  Onslow  and 


JOURNAL.  29 

his  lady,  with  their  hands  joined  in  the  attitude  of 
prayer.  He  was  speaker  of  the  house  of  commons 
in  Queen  Elizabeth's  time,  and  it  is  remarkable 
that  two  of  his  descendants,  and  of  the  same  name, 
have  enjoyed  the  same  dignity  —  Sir  Richard  and 
Arthur  Onslow.  These  figures  are  dressed  in  the 
fashion  of  the  golden  days  of  good  Queen  Bess. 
The  whole  of  the  present  church  is  only  the  nave 
of  the  ancient  Abbey  Church,  and  the  church  was 
but  a  small  part  of  the  entire  Abbey.  What  an 
idea  does  this  give  of  the  extent  of  the  old  eccle 
siastical  structures  and  establishments  !  As  I  was 
leaving  the  church  I  asked  my  guide,  who  was  a 
well-dressed  woman,  and,  as  I  supposed,  the  sex 
ton's  wife,  whether  there  was  anything  more  to  be 
seen  —  she  answered  there  was  not.  I  then  put 
two  shillings  into  her  hand  and  was  going  away  ; 
but  whether  her  conscience  smote  her  for  having 
told  a  lie,  or  her  heart  was  softened  by  receiving 
a  larger  fee  than  she  expected,  we  had  no  sooner 
reached  the  door  than  she  said,  she  believed  there 
was  one  thing  more  that  I  might  like  to  see,  and 
she  would  go  with  me  to  the  place  where  it  stood. 
She  then  led  me  round  behind  the  church  into  a 
garden,  which  was  once  the  monk's  refectory  or 
dining  hall,  and  at  one  end  of  which  was  one  of 
the  most  beautiful  little  things  I  ever  saw  —  a  light 
octagonal  structure  of  gray  stone,  with  painted 
3* 


30  MISCELLANIES. 

windows,  small  bass-reliefs,  delicate  mouldings, 
and  walls  thickly  covered  with  ivy.  In  the  centre 
of  the  roof  inside  is  carved  a  crucifix.  This  ex 
quisite  building  is  no  more,  I  should  judge,  than 
five  feet  in  diameter  and  ten  in  height ;  arid  is 
supposed  to  have  been  used  as  a  kind  of  pulpit 
from  which  one  of  the  monks  read  a  portion 
from  a  father,  or  some  other  holy  book,  while  the 
rest  of  his  brethren  were  at  dinner.  I  would  have 
given  the  woman  another  shilling  for  leading  me 
to  a  sight  of  this  beauty  if  she  had  not  been  near 
preventing  my  seeing  it  altogether.  In  the  eve 
ning  we  returned  to  Wrentnall. 

June  26.  In  the  parish  to  which  this  township 
belongs,  and  also  in  many  of  the  neighboring 
parishes,  the  farmers  have  formed  a  club  for  the 
purpose  of  relieving  those  of  its  members  who 
may  at  any  time  become  destitute.  Some  of  these 
clubs  answer  the  purpose  for  which  they  were 
established  very  well ;  and  others  squander  and 
misapply  the  money  which  is  raised  in  common, 
and  do  very  little  good,  if  any.  The  anniversary 
of  the  Pulverbatch  Club  was  celebrated  to-day. 
After  attending  service  and  hearing  a  sermon  they 
sat  down  to  a  dinner  —  such  an  one,  most  likely, 
as  nine-tenths  of  the  members  tasted  of  but  once 
a  year.  After  dinner  they  were  to  have  a  dance 
on  a  green,  near  the  inn.  The  day  had  been  too 


JOURNAL.  31 

warm  for  any  of  us  to  think  of  going  to  church, 
but  we  resolved  to  attend  the  dance,  as  soon  as 
the  sun  had  descended  low  enough  to  render  a 
walk  of  half  a  mile  in  any  degree  tolerable.  Ac 
cordingly  between  five  and  six  o'clock  we  set  out 
for  the  green.  But  the  dancers  had  not  yet  come 
forth  —  the  day  was  hot,  and  they  preferred,  very 
naturally,  ale  to  exercise.  The  scene  before  the 
inn  was  however  sufficiently  amusing  to  detain 
us  till  it  should  please  the  club  within  to  finish 
their  potations.  Men,  women,  and  children,  huck 
sters,  pedlers,  ballad-singers  and  beggars  were 
collected  together  as  at  a  fair,  only  on  a  smaller 
scale  —  gazing,  sauntering,  squalling,  spending 
their  money  like  fools,  and  exercising  their  seve 
ral  vocations.  A  couple  of  ballad-singers  par 
ticularly  attracted  my  notice,  as  we  have  no  such 
people  at  home.  A  man  and  woman  sang  to 
gether  and  appeared  to  be  in  partnership.  The 
man  began  the  verse  and  tune,  and  the  woman 
joined  him  at  the  second  or  third  word  of  the  first 
line  ;  but  they  both  sang  the  air,  and  the  character 
istic  of  then*  voices  being  rather  strength  than 
sweetness,  they  made  more  noise  than  melody. 
The  ballads  which  they  sang  they  also  sold. 
The  man  had  a  basket  full  of  them  on  his  arm, 
and  when  any  one  of  his  audience  was  particularly 
pleased  with  that  which  they  were  performing,  he 


32  MISCELLANIES. 

or  she  put  twopence  into  his  hand  and  received 
the  favorite  ballad  in  return.  Just  as  the  sun  was 
sinking  behind  the  hills,  the  first  dance  was  car 
ried  down,  and  we  walked  back  to  our  supper. 
The  next  day  we  observed  a  notice  of  the  whole 
matter  in  the  Shrewsbury  newspaper.  After  in 
forming  the  public  that  the  Pulverbatch  Club  cele 
brated  its  anniversary  on  the  preceding  day,  par 
took  of  a  bountiful  repast  and  danced  on  the  vil 
lage  green,  it  was  added  that  "  the  beauty  and 
rank  of  the  neighborhood  retired  at  an  early 
hour."  Now  there  were  some  pretty  faces 
among  us,  no  doubt,  but  it  would  have  puzzled 
the  king's  herald  at  arms  to  have  found  out  any 
rank  higher  than  that  of  squire,  a  title  which  is  in 
variably  given  by  the  country  people  to  Mr.  F. 

Since  my  residence  in  the  country  I  have  been 
delighted  with  nothing  more  than  the  rich  appear 
ance  of  the  hedges.  They  are  now  in  their  full 
glory  — the  honeysuckle  climbs  the  highest 
bushes,  clustering  around  them  with  a  profusion  of 
its  sweet-scented  flowers  and  filling  the  air  with 
fragrance  —  the  wild-rose,  red  and  white,  arches  its 
graceful  wreaths  over  the  road,  while  lower  down 
the  gorgeous  foxglove  rears  its  tall  spire  of  bright 
red  hoods,  the  daisy  peeps  up  from  the  grass, 
and  the  lovely  harebell  hangs  its  modest  head  of 
the  most  delicate  blue.  Jogging  peaceably  along 


JOURNAL. 


33 


on  a  sober  veteran  of  a  horse,  who,  on  account  of 
his  great  age  rather  than  any  remarkable  military 
capacities,  has  received  the  name  of  Blucher,  my 
attention  is  kept  constantly  awake,  by  the  unceas 
ing  variety  of  vegetable  beauty  that  lines  the 
sides  of  every  lane  and  highway  through  which 
chance  or  old  Blucher  may  direct  me. 

July  11.     Another  expedition  was  planned  to 
day,  for  the  purpose  of  visiting  the  seats  of  Lord 

and  Edward ,  Esq.     The  weather  was 

hot,  but  not  excessively  so,  and  being  an  American, 
it  was  to  me  no  cause  of  complaint,  though  the  rest 
of  the  party  suffered  from  it.  We  passed  through 
Shrewsbury,  and  stopped  a  few  moments  to  see 
a  column  erected  in  honor  of  Lord  Hill,  which 
stands  at  a  short  distance  from  the  town.  It  is  a 
noble  pillar,  of  the  Doric  order,  and  bears  a  statue 
of  his  Lordship  on  its  summit.  The  height  of  the 
whole  I  should  think  was  about  one  hundred  and 
twenty  feet,  but  I  have  no  means  of  accurate  in 
formation.  On  one  of  the  sides  of  the  base  is  an 
English  inscription,  and  on  the  opposite  side  a  Latin 
one.  On  another  is  a  list  of  eighteen  battles  in 
which  Lord,  then  Sir  John  Hill,  had  fought  and 
signalized  himself,  ending  with  the  memorable 
battle  of  Waterloo,  and  on  the  side  opposite  to 
this  is  a  door  opening  to  the  interior  of  the  col 
umn  and  upon  a  staircase  which  winds  to  its  top. 


34  MISCELLANIES. 

I  was  too  feeble,  however,  to  think  of  ascending  it. 
After  a  ride  of  another  hour  we  crossed  the  Severn 
on  a  handsome  stone  bridge,  and  entered  the  vil 
lage  of  Atcham,  in  which  is  the  princely  mansion 

of  Lord . 

The  mansion  is  modern  and  in  the  Grecian  style. 
The  furniture  is  splendid,  and  for  the  most  part 
in  very  good  taste.  The  paintings  fill  the  rooms 
pretty  well,  and  among  them  are  some  fine  ones. 
I  liked,  as  well  as  any  of  them,  the  picture  of  a 
fellow  in  the  act  of  catching  a  fly  with  one  hand 
which  had  settled  on  the  back  of  his  other  —  his 
whole  soul  seemed  bound  up  in  his  occupation ; 
and  the  earnestness  of  his  face,  together  with  the 
insignificant  object  which  called  it  forth,  formed  a 
happy  and  ludicrous  contrast.  The  house-maid, 
who  acted  as  our  guide,  told  us  that  it  was  by 
Hubens.  This  might  be  true  and  it  might  not,  as 
the  name  of  Rubens  was  the  only  one  which  she 
had  got  by  heart,  and  was  bestowed  by  her  on 
nearly  all  the  paintings  in  the  house.  Her  igno 
rance  and  pertness  were  laughable  enough.  One 
old  thing,  she  said,  was  the  exact  representation 
of  the  stable  in  which  our  Saviour  was  born,  taken 
at  the  time  and  on  the  spot  by  Rubens.  This  in 
formation  was  delivered  with  the  utmost  gravity, 
and  a  confidence  from  which  there  was  no  appeal. 
Having  entered  a  beautiful  little  room,  the  ceiling 


JOURNAL.  35 

and  wainscoting  of  which  were  painted  in  water- 
colors  and  gilt,  we  took  the  liberty  of  sitting  down, 
as  we  saw  that  the  bottoms  of  the  chairs  wrere  all 
covered  ;  but  we  had  scarcely  done  so  when  our 
directress  told  us,  that  "  indeed  she  was  very  sorry, 
but  his  lordship  permitted  no  one  to  sit  down  on 
those  chairs,  not  even  his  own  company  or  rela 
tions,  for  the  chair-bottoms  were  embroidered  by 
his  lordship's  great-grandmother,  and  therefore  his 
lordship  set  great  store  by  them  ;  and  that  the 
room  was  kept  only  for  show."  Upon  this  admo 
nition  \ve  rose,  and  having  traversed  the  remaining 
apartments  returned  to  the  village  inn,  where  we 
dined.  After  dinner  we  set  out  for  Condover, 

the  village  in  which  is  the  seat  of  Mr.  .     It  is 

a  fine  old  mansion  of  red  freestone,  shaded  by  the 
lofty  and  venerable  trees  of  the  park,  and  within 
a  hundred  yards  of  the  old  village  church.  The 
sun  was  going  down ;  the  impressive  silence  of 
evening  was  broken  only  by  the  sharp  twitter  of 
the  swallows,  as  they  wheeled  in  troops  over  our 
heads,  or  sought  their  nests,  with  which  they  had 
lined  the  eaves  of  the  house  from  one  end  to  the 
other  ;  and  the  house  itself,  with  its  antique  win- 
dows  and  peaked  roofs,  seemed  to  enjoy  the  tran 
quillity  of  the  scene  over  which  it  reigned,  and 
looked  so  quiet,  so  solemn,  and  so  grand,  that  I 
could  not  help  expressing  how  far  preferable  it 


36  MISCELLANIES. 

was,  as  the  residence  of  an  English  gentleman,  to 
the  more  elegant  and  regular  Grecian  structure 
which  we  had  visited  before.  The  inside  of  the 
mansion  corresponds  to  its  external  appearance  — — 
the  rooms  are  filled  with  excellent  old  pictures, 
in  which  this  house  is  richer  than  any  I  have  yet 
seen.  The  house-keeper  was,  as  usual,  ignorant 
of  the  painters'  names,  but  under  one  picture  of 
the  Flemish  school,  which  I  thought  particularly 
fine,  was  written,  on  a  bit  of  gilt  wood  laid  loose 
on  the  frame,  the  name  of  Dietrich,  and  under 
another  that  of  Rembrandt.  In  the  dining-room 
is  a  large  painting  called  the  Hubbub  in  the  Mar 
ket,  and  it  is  a  hubbub  indeed ;  the  marketers 
are  fighting,  the  live  animals  are  scampering,  the 
dead  ones  lie  scattered  about  in  the  dirt,  and  the 
birds  are  taking  advantage  of  the  confusion  by 
flying  away.  It  is  extremely  well  done,  but  I 
could  not  learn  the  name  of  the  master.  We  did 
not  get  back  to  Wrentnall  till  ten  o'clock  at  night, 
and  I  was  so  wearied  that  I  did  not  leave  my  bed 
till  ten  o'clock  the  next  morning. 

July  19.  It  was  hard  to  quit  a  place  where  I 
had  been  so  happy,  and  it  was  melancholy  to 
part  with  friends  to  whom  I  had  grown  so  strongly 
attached,  but  the  time  came  when  it  was  neces 
sary  for  me  to  renew  my  journey  towards  London, 
and  for  my  friends  to  retrace  theirs  to  Liverpool. 


JOURNAL.  37 

They  brought  me  as  far  as  Shrewsbury,  and  there 
we  parted.  It  was  the  first  time  since  my  de 
parture  from  America  that  I  felt  myself  alone  — 
all  alone  —  and  a  dismal  feeling  it  was.  But  I 
rallied  my  spirits  as  well  as  I  could,  and  walked 
out  to  see  such  parts  of  the  town  as  I  had  not 
before  visited.  There  is  a  noble  prison  here, 
with  a  good  statue  of  the  great  Howard  over  the 
gateway  ;  but  it  is  not  opened  to  visiters,  and  a 
residence  within  its  walls  could  not  have  been 
agreeable  to  me.  There  are  two  beautiful  stone 
spires  in  the  town,  one  of  them,  the  loftiest,  be 
longing  to  St.  Mary's  church.  This  church  is 
large  and  in  good  repair,  and  contains  some  an 
cient  tombs.  The  carved  work  over  the  nave  is 
as  fresh  as  when  first  put  up,  and  very  beautiful. 
Near  the  door,  and  on  the  outside  of  the  church,  is 
a  plain  tablet,  commemorating  an  exploit  and  con 
sequent  death  of  one  Cadman,  who  some  years 
ago  attempted  to  fly  or  slide  down  on  a  rope 
from  the  summit  of  this  steeple  to  the  opposite 
bank  of  the  Severn.  The  rope  broke  before  he 
had  descended  half  way,  and  he  was  precipitated 
to  the  ground.  It  is  said  that  the  same  madcap 
had  made  an  application  to  a  certain  prelate  to 
fly  from  the  tower  of  his  cathedral,  and  that  the 
dignitary  returned  for  answer  that  he  might  fly  to 
the  church  whenever  he  pleased,  but  that  he 


38  MISCELLANIES. 

should   never   give  any  one  a  permission  to  fly 
from  it. 

July  20.  At  eight  o'clock  this  morning  I  took 
my  seat  in  the  coach  that  was  to  convey  me  to 
Birmingham.  One  person  only  was  in  the  inside, 
who  appeared  to  be  good-natured,  though  some 
what  sleepy :  this,  however,  he  presently  account 
ed  for  by  saying  that  he  had  been  travelling  all 
night.  While  we  were  riding  along  on  a  part  of 
the  road  near  the  market-town  of  Shiffral,  I  all  at 
once  was  surprised  at  seeing  a  beautiful  nosegay 
come  into  the  stage  and  fix  itself  before  my  eyes. 
On  looking  out  of  the  window  I  perceived  a 
little  girl  who  held  this  nosegay  tied  to  the  end  of 
a  long  stick,  and,  running  by  the  side  of  the  coach, 
was  thus  endeavoring  to  earn  a  half-penny.  I 
thought  it  a  pretty  contrivance ;  and,  taking  the 
flowers  from  off  the  stick,  I  threw  her  the  expected 
piece  of  copper.  Not  satisfied,  however,  with  hav 
ing  disposed  of  one  bunch,  she  immediately  clapt 
on  another,  and  ran  round  to  the  other  side  of  the 
carriage  in  order  to  tempt  my  companion  ;  but 
seeing  that  his  eyelids  were  closed,  and  that  sleep 
had  put  him  out  of  the  reach  of  temptation,  she 
took  the  liberty  of  rousing  his  olfactory  sensi 
bilities  by  thrusting  the  nosegay  full  in  his  face. 
He  started  up,  and  looked  so  comical  that  I  could 
not  help  bursting  into  a  loud  laugh.  Not  imme- 


JOURNAL.  39 

diately  comprehending  the  nature  of  the  assault, 
nor  why  there  was  a  large  nosegay  before  him, 
the  most  whimsical  surprise  was  depicted  on  his 
features  ;  while  the  ripe  and  mealy  farina  of  a  huge 
red  lily  had  imparted  a  bright  tint  to  the  ends  of 
his  nose  and  chin  by  being  so  rudely  brought  into 
contact  with  them.  With  the  greatest  good-nature, 
however,  he  joined  in.  my  laugh ;  and  having  first 
punished  the  girl  for  her  impudence  by  making 
her  run  some  hundred  yards,  he  bought  her 
nosegay.  Passing  a  cottage,  soon  after,  a  dozen 
young  urchins  sallied  out  from  it,  brandishing 
their  rival  commodities,  but  we  were  already  sup 
plied,  and  sent  them  away.  The  road  now  be 
came  lined  with  coal-works,  and  continued  to 
present  the  same  dark  and  weary  aspect  till  we 
entered  Birmingham.  It  was  one  unvaried  pic 
ture  of  large  chimneys,  and  clattering  steam- 
engines,  and  piles  of  earth,  and  blocks  of  coal, 
and  jaded  horses,  and  lean,  smutty,  ragged  forms 
of  men,  women  and  children. 

On  arriving  at  Birmingham,  however,  I  by  no 
means  thought  it  so  smoky  and  dismal  a  place 
as  I  had  been  led  to  expect  from  the  accounts 
which  have  been  given  of  it.  The  situation  of 
the  town  is  high  and  its  air  is  healthy,  and  it  has 
its  open  squares  and  its  broad  and  handsome 
streets.  You  indeed  often  pass  the  tall  chimney 


40  MISCELLANIES. 

of  some  furnace  or  manufactory,  which  is  belching 
forth  its  columns  of  smoke  and  flame,  and  you  see 
that  the  houses  in  its  immediate  vicinity  are  stained 
quite  black  and  covered  with  soot ;  but  you  do 
not  see  this  in  the  better  parts  of  the  town,  and  you 
might  choose  for  yourself  a  hundred  situations 
in  which  you  would  never  be  exposed  to  the  least 
annoyance  from  this  cause.  I  really  believe  that, 
owing  to  their  advantage  of  living  upon  an  eleva 
ted  site,  the  inhabitants  of  Birmingham  experi 
ence  no  more  inconvenience  from  smoke  and  soot 
than  the  inhabitants  of  Liverpool,  and  not  so 
much  as  those  of  the  vast  metropolis.  I  was 
kindly  received  here  by  a  gentleman  with  whom 
I  had  become  acquainted  in  Liverpool,  the  Rev. 

S.  W.  B ,  one  of  the  ministers  of  the  Old 

Meeting  —  so  called  because  the  congregation  of 
which  Dr.  Priestley  was  the  minister  was  formerly 
a  part  of  it.  Both  the  Old  and  the  New  Meeting 
are  now  professedly  Unitarian  in  their  religious 
sentiments  and  worship. 

July  21.  In  company  with  my  friend,  I  visited 
whatever  was  most  interesting  to  a  stranger. 
There  are  two  subscription  libraries  here  ;  but 
they  are  smaller  than  those  at  Liverpool,  and 
prove  that  the  literary  tendencies  of  the  place  are 
not  very  strong.  Crossing  the  market-place,  I 
was  shown,  in  its  centre,  a  bronze  statue  of  Nelson, 


JOURNAL.  41 

by  Westmacott.  It  is  much  more  simple  in  its 
design  than  that  in  the  Liverpool  Exchange ; 
its  style  is  chaste,  and  its  effect  pleasing.  We 
then  stepped  into  the  show  rooms  of  Thomason 
&  Co.  to  see  the  metallic  copy,  which  they  have 
lately  finished,  of  the  famous  antique  vase  which 
was  purchased  in  Italy  by  Sir  William  Hamilton, 
for  his  kinsman,  the  earl  of  Warwick,  and  thence 
called  the  Warwick  vase.  After  traversing  a 
suite  of  rooms,  splendidly  dressed  out  with  cut 
glass,  statues,  antiques,  jewels,  medals,  pictures, 
and  an  endless  variety  of  articles,  for  the  purchase 
of  the  wealthy,  we  arrived  at  a  small  apartment, 
the  sanctum  sanctorum,  appropriated  solely  to  the 
reception  and  exhibition  of  this  copy,  and  fitted  up 
expressly  for  the  purpose  ;  and,  indeed,  it  deserves 
a  place  of  its  own,  in  which  it  may  be  gazed  at 
and  admired.  It  is  of  the  most  beautiful  form 
and  proportions,  and  of  a  gigantic  size,  being 
twenty-one  feet  in  circumference,  and  five  feet 
ten  inches  in  height.  Mr.  Thomason  took  the 
utmost  pains  to  obtain  a  correct  resemblance  of 
the  original,  from  impressions  in  wax,  and  at  last 
succeeded,  to  the  minutest  line.  The  body  of  the 
vase  is  composed  of  a  different  colored  metal  from 
that  in  which  its  decorations  are  cast,  consisting 
of  a  panther's  skin,  vine  leaves,  and  other  emblems 
of  Bacchus;  and  thus  they  are  thrown  into  the 


42  MISCELLANIES. 

boldest  possible  relief.  The  whole  was  cast  in 
separate  pieces,  and  seven  years  were  employed 
in  the  work.  In  different  parts  of  the  room  are 
plaster  casts  of  antique  statues  ;  attendants  and 
ministers,  as  it  were,  on  the  supreme  object  of 
attraction ;  and  in  the  corners  nearest  the  door, 
are  two  female  figures,  offering  medals  of  the 
vase,  one  of  which  I  purchased.  Having  written 
our  names  in  an  Album  which  is  kept  here,  we 
went  away,  and,  as  I  had  walked  quite  enough 
for  the  day,  I  kept  myself  within  doors  for  the 
remainder  of  it. 

July  22.  The  greater  number  of  the  manu 
factories  of  this  place  are  carried  on  without 
smoke  and  din,  in  small  and  retired  workshops, 
standing  back  from  the  street ;  and  you  are  ad 
vertised  of  their  existence  only  by  seeing  on  the 
doors  of  the  dwelling-houses,  in  front,  such  notices 
as  these  —  "The  manufactory  bell,"  or  "Manu 
factory  down  the  yard."  In  these  situations  are 
the  works  of  the  wire-drawer,  the  jeweller,  the 
plater,  &c.,  which  stand  in  no  need  whatever  of 
laboring  steam  engines  and  immense  furnaces.  I 
gained  admittance  to  several  of  these  manufac 
tories,  and  was  much  pleased  and  edified  by  the 
simple  means  with  which  the  workmen  formed 
and  finished  their  various  wares.  Among  the 
rest  I  saw  a  pin-manufactory,  and  watched  the 


JOURNAL.  43 

curious  process  by  which  those  useful  little  servants 
are  fashioned,  from  the  wire-drawing  to  the  stick 
ing  them  on  their  papers,  through  all  the  inter 
mediate  stages  of  cutting  the  wire,  sharpening 
the  ends,  making  the  heads,  putting  them  on, 
and  giving  the  whole  a  coat  of  silver.  I  will  not, 
however,  enter  into  a  detailed  description  of  the 
work ;  suffice  it  to  say,  that  though  I  may  never 
make  pins,  I  know  very  well  how  pins  are  made. 
The  inhabitants  of  Birmingham  have  one  comfort, 
which,  as  far  as  I  know,  they  enjoy  alone.  Just 
a  little  way  out  of  the  town,  there  is  a  large  lot 
of  land,  belonging,  I  believe,  or  at  least  a  part  of 
it,  to  the  free-school  of  Edward  VI.  This  lot  is 
divided  into  a  number  of  small  gardens,  which  are 
severed  by  hedges,  and  planted  with  various  trees, 
bushes,  and  vegetables.  Narrow  lanes  afford 
access  to  each  of  them,  and  each  has  a  gate,  with 
lock  and  key.  These  gardens  are  let  out  to  those 
who  can  afford  to  hire  them  ;  and  the  rent  is 
sufficiently  moderate,  to  come  within  the  means 
of  almost  any  member  of  the  middle  classes. 
Early  in  the  summer  mornings,  the  housekeepers, 
who  have  taken  gardens,  send  out  their  servants, 
or  go  themselves,  to  bring  fruits  and  salads  for 
dinner,  and  can  thus  always  have  them  fresh  and 
at  their  pleasure.  I  myself  accompanied  a  friend 
in  his  morning  visit  to  his  garden,  and  we  soon 


44  MISCELLANIES. 

filled  the  little  basket,  which  he  carried  on  his  arm, 
with  the  choicest  fruits  of  the  season. 

July  23.  I  was  introduced  yesterday  to  the  Rev. 
James  Yates,  one  of  the  ministers  of  the  New  Meet 
ing,  and  one  who,  by  his  "  Vindication  of  Unitarian- 
ism,"  in  reply  to  Mr.  Wardlaw,  has  proved  himself 
worthy  of  succeeding  to  the  pulpit  of  the  learned 
and  virtuous,  though  persecuted  Dr.  Priestley.  He 
is  quite  youthful  in  his  appearance,  has  a  habit  of 
withdrawing  his  eyes  from  you  and  casting  them 
on  the  ground,  and  is  rather  reserved  and  silent  in 
conversation.  He  invited  me  to  breakfast  with 
him  this  morning :  I  went,  and  after  our  repast,  he 
took  me  with  him,  it  being  Sunday,  to  church. 
The  only  monumental  tablet  in  the  meeting-house 
is  one  to  the  memory  of  Dr.  Priestley.  It  is  a  plain 
marble  slab  inserted  in  the  wall,  bearing  an  excel 
lent  inscription,  which  I  was  told  came  from  the 
pen  of  Dr.  Parr.  At  the  bottom  of  the  tablet  is 
a  medallion  with  a  head  of  Dr.  Priestley. 

July  24.  At  three  o'clock  to-day  I  took  the  stage 
coach  to  Warwick.  The  dress  and  appearance  of 
my  sole  companion,  inside,  bespoke  him  a  clergy 
man  of  the  Establishment ;  and  so  he  turned  out 
to  be.  He  was  very  affable  and  communicative, 
and  appeared  to  be  possessed  of  liberal  feelings 
and  an  enlightened  mind.  He  pointed  out  to  me 
the  house  of  Dr.  Priestley,  or  rather  a  house  which 


JOURNAL.  45 

stood  on  the  same  site  with  that  which  was  demol 
ished  by  the  Birmingham  mob.  He  was  in  Bir 
mingham  at  the  time  of  this  outrage,  and  spoke  of 
it  as  an  abominable  and  disgraceful  event,  but  tried 
to  excuse  what  cannot  be  excused.  He  said  that 
the  active  participators  in  the  riot  were  but  few  in 
number  ;  and  that  he  could  only  attribute  their  not 
being  checked  and  dispersed  sooner  than  they 
were,  to  a  stupor  which  seized  the  magistrates, 
and  which  often  will  seize  upon  the  energies  of 
the  best  disposed.  There  were  faults  to  be  par 
doned,  he  added,  on  both  sides ;  and  he  had  no 
doubt  but  that  the  high  existing  state  of  political 
excitement  and  the  exultation  which  was  mani 
fested  by  Dr.  Priestley  and  his  friends,  at  the 
successes  of  the  French  Revolution,  were,  more 
than  his  religious  principles,  the  cause  of  that 
odium  which  produced  such  lamentable  results. 
He  had  always  entertained  the  highest  esteem  and 
respect  for  the  character  and  talents  o£  Dr.  P., 
and  was  on  the  footing  of  intimacy  with  him, 
although  they  had  been  engaged  in  a  theological 
controversy.  He  was  much  younger  than  the 
Doctor,  when  he  ventured  to  write  against  him, 
and,  though  there  were  many  things  in  his  pieces 
which  only  youth  could  excuse,  he  thought  that 
the  Doctor  handled  him  much  too  roughly.  He 
told  me  that,  going  to  see  Dr.  Priestley  one  day, 


46  MISCELLANIES. 

he  was  shown  into  his  library:  the  table  was 
covered  with  open  folios  and  the  desk  with  quires 
of  manuscript,  but  the  Doctor  was  not  there.  He 
opened  a  door  which  led  from  the  library  and 
beheld  the  object  of  his  visit,  with  an  apron  tied 
round  his  waist,  covered  with  smoke  and  perspi 
ration,  and  surrounded  by  alembics,  blowpipes, 
and  all  the  apparatus  of  the  laboratory.  "  Bless 
me,"  exclaimed  Mr.  B.,  "  how  is  it,  Doctor,  that, 
with  all  your  study  in  your  library,  and  all  your 
philosophical  investigations  here,  you  can  find 
time  to  write  as  you  do  against  us  orthodox  ? " 
"  O, "  said  the  Doctor,  "  I  set  apart  an  hour  in 
the  morning  and  an  hour  in  the  evening,  just  to 
teaze  you  a  little." 

Arrived  in  the  evening  at  Warwick,  I  was 
hospitably  welcomed  to  the  house  of  a  gentleman 
to  whom  I  brought  a  letter.  I  could  not  go  to 
bed,  however,  till  I  had  indulged  myself  with  a 
sight  of  .the  far-famed  castle.  I  went  alone  ;  and 
taking  my  stand  on  the  arched  bridge  which  is 
flung  over  the  Avon,  and  leaning  over  its  parapet, 
I  feasted  my  eyes  with  the  view  of  those  noble 
towers,  which,  rising  on  the  solid  rock,  and  swell 
ing  into  the  air  in  massy  grandeur,  unite  all  the 
venerable  features  and  romantic  associations  of 
other  days,  with  all  the  firmness  and  freshness  of 
yesterday  —  which,  once  exposed  to  the  fury  of 


JOURNAL.  47 

war,  and  ever  to  the  inroads  of  time,  have  escaped 
unharmed  from  the  seige  and  the  battle,  and  have 
forced  the  insatiable  destroyer  to  give  back,  de 
feated  and  defied.  The  ivy  adheres  to  the  walls, 
and  fringes  the  round  towers,  and  yet  not  a  stone 
is  displaced,  and  the  whole  outline  is  perfect. 
This  is  owing,  indeed,  in  a  great  measure,  to 
the  care  with  which  the  possessors  of  the  castle  have 
kept  it  in  repair ;  for  without  the  means  of  human 
preservation,  it  could  not  have  stood  thus  long 
entirely  uninjured.  Between  the  new  bridge  on 
which  I  stood  and  the  castle,  are  the  ruined  arches 
of  an  ancient  bridge,  which,  hung  with  ivy  and 
crossing  the  stream  in  interrupted  fragments, 
contributes  greatly  to  the  interest  of  the  scene. 
A  majestic  swan  was  enjoying  his  evening  sail 
upon  the  river,  slowly  floating  from  cove  to  cove ; 
the  swallows,  who  love  the  resort  of  these  old 
piles,  were  hovering  around  the  castle  turrets ; 
and  all  was  still  and  peaceful.  I  would  that  I 
had  been  a  painter. 

July  25.  After  breakfast,  this  morning,  a 
nephew  of  the  gentleman  at  whose  house  I  staid 
accompanied  me  to  the  castle.  We  knocked 
at  the  gate,  which  was  immediately  opened 
by  the  porter,  dressed  in  a  blue  livery,  faced 
with  red ;  and,  having  written  our  names  in 
a  book  which  he  kept  in  his  lodge,  we  walked 


48  MISCELLANIES. 

up  toward  the  mansion.  The  approach  to  the 
castle  is  as  it  ought  to  be  —  a  striking  entrance 
to  a  noble  dwelling.  It  is  a  road  sunk  in  the 
solid  rock  to  the  depth  of  ten  or  twelve  feet, 
which,  with  a  bold  sweep,  winds  its  way  to  the 
castle  gate.  You  tread  upon  the  solid  rock,  and 
you  have  the  solid  rock  on  your  right  hand  and 
on  your  left,  while  you  are  shaded  above  by  trees 
and  shrubs,  whose  twisted  roots  and  trailing  fibres, 
together  with  the  closely-plaited  ivy,  form  a  fanci 
ful  tapestry  on  each  side  of  you ;  and  it  is  not  till 
you  take  the  last  turn  that  you  see  the  castle  and 
its  frowning  towers.  This  passage  is  not  ancient, 
but  was  cut  by  the  last  earl  of  Warwick.  As  we 
passed  under  the  arched  gateway,  into  the  court 
yard,  we  saw  the  barbed  points  of  the  portcullis 
suspended  over  us,  and  observed  several  doors 
and  nooks  which  all  had  their  uses  when  the  castle 
was  the  abode  of  feudal  strength  and  resistance, 
as  well  as  of  baronial  splendor.  The  court-yard  is 
a  spacious  area  inclosed  by  the  several  buildings 
of  the  castle,  and  in  form  a  square.  We  rang  the 
bell  at  the  principal  door,  on  the  left  side  of  the 
court,  and  a  servant  appearing,  ushered  us  into  the 
great  hall.  Here  we  wrere  presented  with  the 
granite  monuments  and  features  of  feudal  times. 
The  wainscoting  of  oak  is  covered  with  pieces 
of  ancient  armor  —  helmet  and  shield,  breast- 


JOURNAL.  49 

piece  and  back-piece,  sword  and  lance,  and  what 
ever  else  contributed  to  form  the  knight's  com 
plete  equipment,  are  displayed  to  the  best  advan 
tage,  and  kept  in  perfect  order.  Over  the  doors 
are  the  stag's  branching  antlers,  and  on  one  side 
of  the  hall  is  the  huge  fireplace,  which  once  was 
heaped  with  blazing  logs  from  the  forest.  Noth 
ing  was  wanting  but  a  long  table  in  the  midst 
loaded  with  plenty  and  surrounded  by  roaring 
vassals.  From  this  hall  you  see,  through  the 
arched  door-ways,  the  whole  suite  of  apartments 
which  belong  to  this  portion  of  the  castle,  forming 
an  extended  and  beautiful  vista ;  and  from  its 
windows  you  have  the  lovely  prospect  of  the 
Avon,  the  ruined  bridge,  the  park  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  river,  and  the  rich  country  beyond  it. 
We  were  hurried,  as  usual,  through  the  remaining 
show-rooms  of  the  castle ;  but  there  was  this  con 
solation,  that  the  servant  knew  by  whom  most  of 
the  pictures  were  painted.  A  fine  Charles  L,  on 
horseback,  by  Vandyck,  hung  at  the  end  of  a  long 
gallery ;  but  the  painting  which  struck  me  most 
was  a  full-length  of  Ignatius  Loyola,  by  Rubens. 
It  made  so  vivid  an  impression  on  my  mind  that 
after  I  left  the  castle  it  wras  the  only  picture  which 
I  remembered  distinctly,  and  I  can  see  it  now  as 
clearly  almost  as  if  it  were  before  me.  Its  colors 
are  laid  on  in  the  most  glowing  manner  of  R  ubens's 
5 


50  MISCELLANIES. 

glowing  style  ;  the  strongly-marked  face  is  raised 
toward  a  burst  of  light  above,  and  the  fore-short 
ening  of  the  extended  hand  is  astonishing  —  it 
seems  to  be  stretched  forth  from  the  canvass.  In 
one  of  the  rooms  we  were  made  to  remark  a  bowl, 
of  nearly  a  foot  in  diameter  and  six  inches  deep, 
worked  out  from  a  solid  and  beautifully  trans 
parent  crystal. 

On  leaving  this  part  of  the  castle,  and  giving 
the  attendant  her  fee,  we  were  delivered  over  to 
the  care  of  the  gardener.  By  him  we  were  led 
through  a  small  gate  in  the  castle  walls  to  a  neat 
green-house,  built  for  the  reception  and  shelter  of 
the  magnificent  Warwick  vase,  which,  before  it 
was  placed  here,  was  improperly  made  to  stand 
in  the  open  air  ;  an  exposure  which,  as  might  be 
supposed,  was  of  no  great  benefit  to  it.  This  vase 
is  the  original,  from  which  that  of  Thomason  has 
been  so  accurately  copied.  It  is  of  white  marble  ; 
and,  when  its  great  age  and  the  delicacy  of  its 
ornaments  are  considered,  its  high  state  of  pre 
servation  is  remarkable.  From  this  precious  relic 
of  antiquity,  we  followed  our  guide  across  a  close- 
shaven  lawn,  whose  surface  was  here  and  there 
interrupted  by  clumps  of  the  cedar  of  Lebanon, 
to  the  banks  of  the  river.  Going  up  to  a  certain 
spot,  the  old  man  pushed  away  with  his  hands  a 
cluster  of  ivy  leaves,  and  pointed  to  a  small  and 


JOURNAL.  51 

unadorned  plate  of  copper,  let  into  the  rock, 
which  bore  a  Latin  inscription,  to  the  memory  of 
a  son  of  Lord  Bagot,  an  amiable  young  man, 
•who  was  drowned  in  the  Avon  opposite  to  where 
we  were  standing.  We  then  turned  back,  and 
began  to  ascend  a  steep  hill ;  not,  however,  till 
we  had  stopped  awhile  at  a  little  mossy  nook, 

"  Where  water,  clear  as  diamond  spark, 
In  a  stone  basin  fell," 

and  had  refreshed  ourselves  with  the  pure  and 
grateful  liquid,  which  oozed  from  the  solid  foun 
dation  of  the  castle  and  furnished  the  supply  of 
all  its  inhabitants.  The  ascent  of  the  hill  was 
made  easy  to  us  by  means  of  a  path,  which  wound 
round  it.  On  its  summit  stood  the  watch-tower, 
which  commands,  as  of  course  it  should,  the  whole 
country  round  it  for  miles.  We  followed  the 
spiral  staircase,  till  it  brought  us  quite  out  on  to 
the  leads  of  the  tower,  and,  on  our  return,  took  a 
peep  into  the  room  below,  a  snug  little  place, 
just  big  enough  for  the  watchman  to  sit  in  com 
fortably,  and  cook  his  chicken  at  the  fire,  if  he 
ever  was  so  lucky  as  to  get  the  one  or  the  other. 
There  was,  certainly,  a  fireplace  in  the  room, 
however,  and  I  think  that,  with  the  comforts  afore 
said,  I  could  have  passed  a  winter's  night  or  two 
here  much  to  my  liking. 


52  MISCELLANIES. 

Descending  from  the  watch-tower  into  the  court 
yard,  we  parted  with  our  guide,  after  the  usual 
compliment,  and  were  put  into  the  hands  of 
another,  who  was  to  conduct  us  to  the  top  of  one 
of  the  main  towers.  Of  these  there  are  three  or 
four,  which  rise  at  intervals  from  the  mass  of  build 
ings,  and  are  joined  together  by  the  walls  or  dif 
ferent  offices  of  the  castle.  There  were  several 
stories  in  the  one  which  we  ascended,  each  of 
them  divided  into  one  large  room  and  two  or  three 
smaller  ones.  These  rooms  were  wholly  without 
furniture,  and  very  bare  and  desolate ;  and  the 
deep  windows  and  narrow  loop-holes,  through 
which  a  besieging  enemy  was  annoyed  in  times 
of  danger,  plainly  intimated  what  were  the  scenes 
and  who  were  the  men  that  once  were  familiar  to 
this  deserted  strong-hold.  A  rich  and  extensive 
prospect  presented  itself  on  our  gaining  the  roof 
of  the  tower,  and  rewarded  us  for  the  trouble  of 
ascending.  After  resting  here  a  short  time  we 
came  down,  and  having  seen  everything  that  was 
shown  within  the  bounds  of  the  castle,  we  returned 
to  the  porter's  lodge.  But  he  also  had  his  curiosi 
ties  to  show.  He  took  us  into  his  little  room,  and 
pointed  us  to  twenty  or  thirty  morsels  of  antiquity, 
which  lined  its  walls,  as  the  undoubted  property 
of  the  renowned  Guy,  Earl  of  Warwick.  Here 
was  his  shirt  of  chain  armor,  his  helmet  and  his 


JOURNAL.  53 

swords;  there  was  his  tremendous  tilting  spear, 
and  a  walking  staff  of  equal  dimensions  with  that 
which  Polypheme  carried  before  him ;  and  here, 
again,  was  a  rib  of  the  dun  cow  which  was  slain 
by  Guy  in  single  combat.  To  crown  all,  the 
centre  of  the  room  was  occupied  by  Guy's  por 
ridge-pot,  of  the  capacity  of  a  hogshead,  and  his 
flesh-hook,  as  big  as  a  pitchfork.  Our  friend  the 
porter  asked  us  "  whether  we  would  hear  the 
sound  of  the  porridge-pot ;  "  and,  on  our  assenting, 
he  drew  the  flesh-hook  slowly  and  slightly  across 
its  rim  two  or  three  times  without  making  much 
noise,  but  at  last  with  so  much  force  that  the  harsh 
braying  of  the  kettle  made  us  start,  and  obliged 
us  to  hold  our  ears.  What  mummery  !  —  to  be 
playing  such  tricks  as  these  under  the  walls  of 
Warwick  castle !  The  several  pieces  of  armor 
were  no  doubt  interesting  antiquities,  and  even 
the  porridge-pot  might  very  probably  have  been 
used  by  a  cook  of  the  dark  ages  ;  but  after  we  had 
been  contemplating  the  genuine  productions  of 
Rubens,  Vandyck  and  Guido,  in  the  grand  saloons 
which  had  given  birth  to  barons  and  peers,  and 
entertainment  to  kings  and  queens,  to  be  shown  a 
bone  of  a  sea-horse  for  the  rib  of  Guy's  dun  cow, 
and  dismissed  with  a  serenade  upon  his  porridge- 
pot —  it  was  too  bad. 

July  26.     Taking  an  early  dinner,  I  rode  over 


54  MISCELLANIES. 

with  my  young  companion  to  visit  the  ruins  of 
Kenilworth  castle.  The  ride  is  a  very  pleasant 
one ;  but  our  apprehensions  of  a  severe  thunder 
shower,  which  were  excited  by  a  black  and  threat 
ening  sky,  prevented  our  enjoying  it  so  much  as 
we  should  have  done.  After  sprinkling  us  with  a 
few  drops,  however,  from  his  urn,  the  spirit  of 
the  storm  passed  on  and  left  us  to  our  pleasure. 
"We  stopped  at  the  house  of  a  gentleman  in  Kenil 
worth,  whom  I  had  seen  at  Birmingham,  and  who 
had  obligingly  invited  me  to  call  upon  him,  as  he 
had  heard  me  express  a  design  of  visiting  the  cas 
tle.  He  walked  with  us  to  the  ruins,  which  lie 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  more  populous 
part  of  the  village,  and  by  his  local  information 
greatly  contributed  to  the  gratification  which  we 
received  from  the  sight  of  these  imposing  remains 
of  former  grandeur.  The  buildings  of  the  castle 
may  be  divided  into  two  principal  parts :  the  most 
ancient  part,  commonly  called  Csesar's  tower,, 
built  by  Geoffry  de  Clinton,  about  the  year  1120  ; 
and  the  part  which  goes  under  the  name  of 
Leicester's  buildings,  erected  by  Robert  Dudley, 
earl  of  Leicester,  the  favorite  of  Queen  Elizabeth, 
in  the  year  1571.  Although  there  is  such  a  differ 
ence  in  the  dates  of  their  erection,  both  of  these 
divisions  form  one  grand  mass  of  ruins  j  and> 
indeed,  that  portion  which  is  by  centuries  the 


JOURNAL.  00 

oldest,  appears  to  be  the  strongest  and  least 
injured.  Beside  these  principal  portions,  how 
ever,  there  are  several  towers  that  went  to  form 
the  entire  castle  ;  one  of  which  is  called  King 
Henry's  lodgings,  from  its  having  been  the  par 
ticular  residence  of  Henry  III.,  during  the  time 
that  the  castle  belonged  to  the  crown.  The  shape 
of  these  towers  and  buildings  is  square;  unlike 
those  of  Warwick,  several  of  which  are  circular. 
The  roofs  have  all  fallen  in ;  the  oaken  timbers 
which  separated  the  different  stories  have  all  rotted 
away  —  all  save  one,  which  I  saw  far  above  me, 
crossing  from  wall  to  wall,  and  that  was  almost 
eaten  through  in  the  midst,  and  one  more  storm 
would  throw  it  to  the  ground.  The  vegetation 
which  clothes  these  ruins  is  astonishingly  luxuriant. 
I  took  notice  of  more  than  one  stem  of  ivy,  which 
would  have  measured  a  foot  in  its  diameter,  and 
of  more  than  one  tree,  of  the  common  size,  which 
flourished  on  the  top  of  a  ruined  wall  at  the  height 
of  one  hundred  feet  from  the  earth.  As  we  entered 
Caesar's  tower,  we  disturbed  its  only  inhabitant  — 
a  large  white  owl:  we  raised  our  heads  at  the  shriek 
which  it  gave,  and  saw  it  fly  across  the  open  top  to 
the  opposite  wall  in  search  of  a  thicker  shade  of  ivy. 
Time  has  made  sad  havoc  here,  but  it  would 
be  doing  him  injustice  to  charge  him  with  being 
the  only  ravager.  In  the  time  of  the  Common- 


56  MISCELLANIES. 

wealth,  Cromwell  made  a  present  of  the  castle 
to  some  of  his  officers,  who  wantonly  tore  down 
its  walls  and  committed  more  injury  than  the 
more  sparing  hand  of  time  would  have  done  for 
ages  to  come.  The  only  building  belonging  to 
the  castle  which  has  escaped  the  general  deso 
lation,  is  the  great  gate-house,  which  was  built  by 
Leicester.  It  is  quadrangular,  with  round  towers 
at  its  four  corners,  and  is  now  the  habitation  of  a 
farmer.  In  one  of  the  rooms  there  is  a  curious 
marble  chimney-piece,  surmounted  by  rich  oak 
carving,  which  was  taken  from  the  principal  ruins, 
and  preserved  here.  The  marble  is  sculptured  in 
a  most  costly  manner,  and  bears,  in  different  places, 
Leicester's  initials,  his  motto,  and  his  arms.  It  is 
to  be  hoped  that  this  gate-house  will  at  least  be  kept 
in  repair,  and  not  suffered  soon  to  participate  in  the 
fate  of  the  palace  to  which  it  led. 

The  circumstance  which  has  given  its  greatest  ce 
lebrity  to  Kenil worth  castle,  is  its  having  been  the 
scene  of  the  grand  entertainment  which  the  earl  of 
Leicester  gave  to  Queen  Elizabeth,  "for  the  space 
of  seventeen  days,  with  excessive  cost,  and  a  variety 
of  delightful  shows."  This  entertainment  was  as 
splendid  as  money  and  feasting  and  dancing  and 
revelry  could  make  it,  and  was  described  by  Gas- 
coigne,  a  court  poet  of  those  days,  "in  a  special 
discourse  therefore  then  printed,  and  entitled,  The 


JOURNAL.  57 

Princely  Pleasures  of  Kenilworth  Castle.''  What 
a  change  has  been  wrought  here  in  a  few  short 
years !  Before  we  took  leave  of  this  interesting 
spot,  we  went  to  a  certain  place,  opposite  the 
ruins,  where  I  was  told  there  was  an  echo  which 
repeated  three  or  four  times.  But  we  either  did 
not  strike  upon  the  precise  spot,  or  the  state  of  the 
atmosphere  was  unfavorable,  for  we  could  get  but 
a  single  response.  That  single  one,  however, 
was  so  distinct  and  exact,  that  I,  who  had  never 
heard  such  a  one  before,  was  quite  astonished. 
A  long  sentence  was  copied  throughout,  and  a 
cough,  or  a  halloo,  was  returned  to  the  ears  of  the 
speaker  precisely  as  it  came  from  his  lips.  I  asked 
of  the  old  towers,  "  Where  are  Elizabeth  and 
Leicester  now  ?  "  They  answered,  word  for  word 
and  tone  for  tone,  "  Where  are  Elizabeth  and 
Leicester  now  ?  "  Where,  indeed  !  where  is  the 
capricious  queen,  and  her  haughty  favorite,  and 
where  are  all  the  "  Princely  Pleasures  of  Kenilworth 
Castle  ?  "  — I  have  heard  the  hooting  of  a  solitary 
owl,  and  I  have  seen  weeds  on  the  hearth,  and  ivy 
in  the  chambers  ;  but  they  say  nothing  of  royalty 
and  revelling,  or  only  tell  me  that  they  are  gone. 
July  27.  Beauchamp  chapel,  in  St.  Mary's 
church,  is  much  celebrated  for  its  beauty,  as  well 
as  for  the  tomb  of  its  founder,  Sir  Richard  Beau- 
champ.  The  style  of  the  chapel  is  the  latest  or 


58  MISCELLANIES. 

florid  Gothic.  The  carving  of  the  niches,  the 
roof,  and  the  pendant  capitals,  is  most  exquisitely 
delicate,  and  profusely  decorated  with  gilding, 
which  looks  as  fresh  as  if  it  had  been  put  on  but 
yesterday.  Tradition  informed  us,  through  the 
mouth  of  the  sexton's  helpmate,  that,  in  the  niches 
or  shrines,  there  formerly  stood  images  of  solid 
gold,  which  were  taken  from  their  pedestals  by 
some  of  Cromwell's  soldiers,  who  left  in  exchange 
their  helmets ;  and.  it  was  certainly  manifest 
that  the  rusty  helmets  were  here,  and  that  the 
gold  images  were  not.  The  tomb  of  Sir  Richard 
Beauchamp  is  of  marble  ;  and  round  its  sides  are 
placed,  in  separate  niches,  small  figures  of  men 
and  women  in  monastic  habits,  and  executed  in 
copper  gilt.  Recumbent  on  the  tomb  is  the  effigy 
of  the  noble  knight.  The  hands  are  raised,  but 
not  quite  joined  ;  the  head  is  finely  done,  and 
possesses  interesting  features  ;  the  whole  figure 
is  of  hollow  brass.  Above  it  is  a  brass  frame, 
which  formerly  supported  a  velvet  pall.  This 
tomb  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  perfect 
monumental  antiquities  in  England.  The  tomb 
of  Robert  Dudley,  Earl  of  Leicester,  and  his 
countess  Lettice,  is  likewise  in  this  chapel.  It  is 
of  Italian  marble  and  workmanship  ;  its  appear 
ance  is  magnificent,  but  clumsy  and  tasteless.  At 
three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  I  bade  good-by 


JOURNAL.  59 

to  my  friends  at  Warwick,  and  took  the  coach  to 
Stratford-upon-Avon. 

It  was  certainly  with  no  common  emotions  that 
I  entered  the  village  which  gave  birth  and  burial 
to  the  greatest  poetical  genius  the  world  ever  saw  ; 
and  my  first  object,  after  I  had  bestowed  my 
luggage  at  the  inn,  was  to  visit  the  ancient  dwell 
ing  under  whose  roof  the  bard  of  nature  was  born. 
Its  outward  appearance  is  the  same  with  that  of 
many  old  houses  which  I  had  already  seen  in 
England ;  the  timber  frame-work  being  exposed 
to  the  eye,  and  the  interstices  filled  in  with  brick 
or  mud,  and  faced  with  mortar,  white- washed. 
The  first  thing  which  is  shown  to  you  is  the  fire 
place,  sunk  so  deep  into  the  wall,  that  it  accommo 
dates  seats  on  its  sides,  in  the  style  of  a  fireplace 
in  an  American  country  inn.  On  one  of  the 
sides  a  chair  is  pointed  out,  as  the  one  in  which 
Shakspeare  sat  when  the  buck  was  roasting 
which  he  stole  from  Sir  Thomas  Lucy's  park ; 
and  you  are  soon  called  upon  to  reverence  such  a 
chaotic  collection  of  rattle-traps  which  are  heaped 
together  on  a  bed  in  the  front  chamber,  that, 
though  considerably  amused,  your  high-raised 
feelings  and  poetical  associations  are  almost 
entirely  put  to  flight.  The  personage  who  intro 
duces  you  to  all  these  varieties,  and  who  takes  a 
lease  of  the  house  for  the  purpose  of  showing  it  to 


bU  MISCELLANIES. 

strangers,  is  a  garrulous,  red-faced,  slovenly  old 
woman,  with  false  hair,  and  a  dirty  cap,  by  the 
name  of  Mary  Hornby.  "  This,  sir,"  said  she, 
"  is  Shakspeare's  lantern,  and  that  is  his  inkstand, 
and  this  is  the  pin-cushion  which  Queen  Elizabeth 
gave  him,  and  this,"  added  she,  taking  up  a 
tremendously  long,  black,  and  rusty  old  rapier, 
"  is  his  sword,  which  the  prince  regent  told  me 
was  a  real  Toledo  blade  —  he  knew  by  some 
marks  upon  the  handle  —  and  he  offered  fifty 
pounds  for  it,  but  it  couldn't  be  sold."  In 
her  catalogue  of  curiosities,  you  may  be  sure,  that 
boxes  made  of  "Shakspeare's  mulberry  tree" 
are  not  forgotten,  of  which  she  has  a  handkerchief 
full,  at  a  shilling  apiece ;  and  when  this  stock  is 
sold,  she  will  doubtless  find  means  to  get  another 
as  ample. 

Within  a  few  years,  an  Album  has  been  kept 
here,  in  which  I  observed  the  names  of  Lord 
Byron,  and  other  living  poets,  the  Prince  of 
Wales,  Prince  Leopold,  the  Duke  of  Wellington, 
&c.,  as  well  as  of  several  of  my  American 
acquaintances.  The  walls  and  ceiling,  also,  of 
this  chamber,  are  so  closely  covered  with  sig 
natures  and  rhymes,  that  it  is  next  to  impossible 
to  squeeze  in  another  letter,  without  jostling  a 
poet  or  a  prince.  Mrs.  Hornby,  it  seems,  claims 
a  relationship  with  the  bard  of  Avon,  and  must 


JOURNAL.  61 

needs  be  an  authoress  too !  She  showed  me  a 
printed  comedy  and  tragedy  of  which  she  was 
the  writer,  and  wished  me  to  become  a  purchaser  ; 
but  the  nonsense  of  the  things  was  so  dull  that  I 
declined.  I  bought,  however,  a  collection  of  some 
of  the  poetry  which  had  been  written  here,  and 
which  she  had  compiled  and  published  under  the 
title  of  "  Extemporal  Verses  written  at  the  Birth 
place  of  Shakspeare,  at  Stratford-upon-Avon,  by 
Persons  of  Genius,"  &c.  Most  of  these  extern' 
poral  verses  reflect  no  great  credit  upon  Mrs. 
Hornby's  taste  in  selection,  for  they  are  as  poor  as 
possible ;  but  one  or  two  are  worth  copying. 
These  lines  are  among  the  best : 

Ah,  Shakspeare  !  when  we  read  the  votive  scrawls 
With  which  well-meaning  folks  deface  these  walls, 

And  while  in  vain  we  seek  some  lucky  hit 
Amidst  the  lines  whose  nonsense,  nonsense  smothers, 

We  find,  unlike  thy  Falstaffin  his  wit, 
Thou  art  not  here  the  cause  oficit  in  others. 

The  following  appear  to  have  been  written  by 
some  one  who  came  here  with  his  wife,  whose 
name  was  Catherine : 

Shakspeare,  another  Kate  behold, 
Who  neither  is  nor  was  a  scold, 

A  hetter  Kate  than  thine  ; 
I  wot  Petruchio,  if  on  earth, 
Would  give  her  up,  with  all  her  worth, 

To  be  possess'd  of  mine. 

6 


62  MISCELLANIES. 

Another  visiter,  who  signs  W.  Dimond,  with  the 
date  June  15,  1819,  thus  quizzes  Mrs.  Hornby 
and  her  pretensions : 

The  Hebrew  seer,  by  God's  own  coursers  driven, 

Fleet  as  the  winds,  in  fiery  car  to  heaven, 

Heard,  as  he  soar'd,  a  kneeling  kinsman's  prayer, 

And  dropt  his  mantle  to  enfold  his  heir. 

The  relique  caught,  bade  wondering  ages  trace 

A  prophet's  spirit  in  a  prophet's  race  ! 

So  Avon's  Bard,  from  Avon's  banks  removed, 

Bequeathed  his  laurel  to  the  soil  he  loved, 

And  here  —  his  native  shades  —  yet  floats  along, 

In  living  "  woodnotes  wild,"  a  Shakspeare's  song. 

That  harp  which  owned  a  William's  proud  command, 

Strikes  now,  with  gentler  sound,  in  Mary's  hand. 

This  worthy  descendant  of  Shakspeare,  on 
finding  out  by  her  Album  that  I  came  from 
America,  told  me  that  a  number  of  American 
gentlemen  had  subscribed  for  her  last  tragedy, 
and  she  wished,  when  I  returned,  that  I  would 
inform  them  it  was  published,  and  request  them  to 
send  her  word  how  she  could  forward  their  copies. 

From  the  roof  under  which  Shakspeare  first 
drew  the  breath  of  life,  I  went  to  that  which 
covers  his  bones  —  from  the  birthplace,  to  the 
burial-place.  He  is  interred  in  the  chancel,  or 
eastern  end  of  the  village  church.  There  are  a 
great  many  curious  old  monuments  and  tablets  in 
'different  parts  of  the  church,  but  I  could  not  heed 
them  now,  and  passed  on  to  that  one  which 


JOURNAL.  63 

caught  my  eye  as  soon  as  I  came  within  sight  of 
it,  and  which  I  knew,  from  the  bust  upon  it,  to  be 
Shakspeare's.  The  figure  is  placed  in  a  niche, 
between  two  pillars,  about  five  or  six  feet  from 
the  ground ;  the  form  is  represented  as  low  as  the 
middle ;  one  hand  holds  a  pen,  the  other  rests 
upon  a  scroll,  supported  by  a  cushion.  The  head 
bears  a  general  resemblance  to  the  portraits  that 
are  given  of  him,  and  is  by  many  supposed  to  be 
the  best  and  most  authentic  likeness  extant.  It 
was  originally  colored  after  life,  but  was  painted 
over  with  a  dingy  white  by  the  self-assumed 
authority  of  Malone.  In  the  Album  which  is  kept 
here,  this  work  of  the  commentator  has  been  thus 
severely  commented  upon : 

Stranger,  to  whom  this  monument  is  shown, 
Invoke  the  poet's  curse  upon  Malone  ; 
Whose  meddling  zeal  his  barbarous  taste  betrays, 
And  daubs  his  tombstone  as  he  mars  his  plays ! 

A  colored  bust  of  marble  certainly  has,  in  the 
abstract,  a  most,  ungracious  effect,  and  no  one 
would  think  of  coloring  a  statue  of  Canova's  or 
Chantry's  ;  but  as  everything  which  concerns 
Shakspeare  is  interesting  and  sacred,  and  as  we 
wish  to  see  his  effigy  as  near  like  himself  as  the 
art  of  that  period  could  make  it,  it  is  a  pity  that 
Mr.  Malone's  order  should  ever  have  been 


64  MISCELLANIES. 

obeyed.     The  original  color  of  the  eyes  was  a 
light  hazel,  that  of  the  hair  and  beard,  auburn. 

Opposite  the  monument,  and  at  a  short  distance 
from  the  wall,  is  the  poet's  grave.  It  is  marked 
by  a  plain  flat  stone,  even  with  the  pavement ; 
and  I  may  here  observe,  that  the  pavement  of  an 
English  church  is,  in  general,  almost  entirely  com 
posed  of  grave-stones.  On  that  of  Shakspeare 
there  is  the  following  inscription,  supposed  to 
have  been  written  by  himself: 

Good  friend,  for  Jesvs  sake  forbeare, 
To  digg  the  dvst  encloased  heare  ; 
Blest  be  ye  man  y*  spares  thes  stones, 
And  cvrst  be  he  yt  moves  my  bones. 

No  one  has  dared  a  curse  of  Shakspeare's  in 
voking —  his  bones  are  unmoved,  his  dust  has 
never  been  disturbed.  The  church  in  itself,  is 
very  well  worthy  a  half  hour's  attention.  It  has 
a  tall  and  handsome  spire ;  it  is  larger  than  the 
generality  of  village  churches ;  many  of  its  parts 
are  curious,  and  its  whole  effect  is  pleasing.  Be 
hind  the  chancel  flows  the  river  Avon,  over  which 
a  plank  of  moderate  length  might  form  a  bridge. 

July  28.  My  ride  this  morning  was  a  delightful 
one.  The  country  between  Stratford  and  Wood 
stock  is  under  high  cultivation,  and  beautifully 
diversified  with  handsome  seats,  snug  villages, 


JOURNAL.  65 

and  picturesque  churches.  At  Woodstock  I  left 
the  stage-coach.  This  village  is  celebrated  for  its 
leather  gloves,  which  are  the  best  in  England,  and 
for  its  neighborhood  to  Blenheim  palace,  which, 
as  is  well  known,  was  presented  by  the  British 
nation  to  the  great  duke  of  Marlborough.  It  is, 
besides,  one  of  the  prettiest  towns  that  I  have  yet 
seen.  Almost  every  other  house  is  a  glove-shop ; 
in  the  windows  of  which  there  is  an  attractive  dis 
play  of  gloves,  waistcoats,  purses,  work-bags  and 
other  articles,  all  of  leather,  and  very  beautiful. 
As  I  lingered  for  a  moment  before  one  of  these 
windows,  the  young  woman  who  tended  the  shop 
came  to  the  door  and  invited  me  in,  and  by  a  skil 
ful  recommendation  of  her  wares,  prevailed  on 
me  to  spend  twice  as  much  money  as  I  could  well 
afford. 

Just  out  of  the  town  is  the  entrance  gate  of 
Blenheim.  The  porter,  dressed  in  a  full  scarlet 
livery,  came  out,  on  learning  that  I  wished  to  see 
the  palace,  and  conducted  me  into  the  grounds. 
Here  I  was  instructed  to  stop  and  observe  the  dif 
ferent  views,  and  it  was  indeed  an  enchanting 
spectacle  which  presented  itself  before  me.  On 
my  right  was  a  fine  piece  of  water,  crossed  at 
some  distance  by  a  stone  bridge  of  one  arch,  whose 
span  was  one  hundred  and  one  feet,  and  built,  as 
the  porter  said,  after  the  model  of  the  Rialto  at 
6* 


66  MISCELLANIES. 

Venice.  Farther  on  was  a  monumental  pillar 
erected  to  the  first  duke ;  before  me  was  a  glimpse 
of  the  palace,  and  on  all  sides  grand  clumps  of 
oaks,  disposed  to  the  best  advantage  for  the  pros 
pect.  The  visiter  may,  if  he  pleases,  walk  or  ride 
round  the  park,  but,  as  I  designed  to  be  in  Oxford 
before  night,  I  could  not  spare  the  time.  The  road 
from  the  park  gate  winds  up  to  the  gate  of  the 
palace.  Here  another  porter  was  in  attendance 
to  lead  me  to  the  door  of  the  great  hall,  which 
you  reach  by  a  flight  of  stone  steps  ;  and  in  this 
hall  was  a  man  in  a  powdered  wig  and  black  suit, 
with  a  wand  in  his  hand  for  the  purpose  of  point 
ing  out  the  several  paintings,  statues,  &c.,  who, 
after  requesting  me  to  put  my  name  in  a  book 
which  is  kept  here,  began  to  drag  me  through  the 
apartments  with  the  utmost  celerity.  He  described 
the  pictures,  one  after  another,  so  rapidly,  that  by 
the  time  I  had  hastily  glanced  over  the  first  one  in  a 
room,  he  had  finished  the  history  of  half  a  dozen. 
I  can  only  remember,  therefore,  that  I  saw  a  col 
lection  of  pictures,  which  was  worthy  being  the  gift 
of  a  nation  to  its  favorite,  and  that  this  collection 
was  particularly  rich  in  the  productions  of  Rubens. 
Yet  there  was  one,  which,  among  all  the  rest,  at 
tracted  and  riveted  my  attention,  and  on  which  I 
continued  to  gaze  and  gaze,  while  my  clock-work 
conductor  was  describing  pictures  to  himself  in 


JOURNAL.  67 

another  part  of  the  house.  It  was  one  of  those 
beautiful  things  in  the  world  which  we  congratu 
late  ourselves  on  having  seen,  which  we  lay  by  in 
the  choice  places  of  our  memory,  to  help  make  up 
its  pleasures  and  enrich  its  stores,  to  which  we 
love  to  return,  on  which  we  delight  to  dwell,  and 
which  ever  brings  a  most  precious  and  holy  feel 
ing  in  its  company.  It  was  a  Madonna,  by  Carlo 
Dolce.  Sweet,  indeed,  was  the  imagination  which 
pictured  to  itself  so  sweet  a  creation,  and  sweet 
was  the  touch  of  that  pencil  which  could  transfer 
it  to  the  canvass,  and  show  it  to  the  world.  The 
virgin's  face  was  more  than  beautiful,  it  was  hea 
venly  ;  and  there  was  no  need  of  the  circle  of 
stars  over  her  head,  to  prove  that  the  painter  wor 
shipped  her.  The  fingers  were  most  delicately 
rounded  and  tapered,  the  moulding  of  the  hand 
was  perfect,  and  the  raised  eyes  had  a  humid  light 
in  them  which  I  had  never  observed  in  any  pic 
ture  before.  It  was  such  a  form,  in  short,  as  we 
never  expect  to  see  on  earth,  and  such  as  is  only 
brought  by  fancy  in  her  most  propitious  dreams 
and  to  her  most  favored  votaries. 

Beside  this  picture,  there  were  also  one  or  two 
others  which  I  remembered  from  the  mass,  though 
less  distinctly.  In  the  great  drawing-room  there 
was  a  Charles  I.  on  horseback,  with  Sir  Thomas 
Morton  on  foot,  supporting  his  helmet,  by  Van- 


68  MISCELLANIES. 

dyck ;  the  same  subject  that  I  have  already  no 
ticed  as  having  seen  at  Warwick  castle.  The 
horse,  however,  in  the  Blenheim  picture  is  a  much 
more  magnificent  creature  than  the  other,  and  is 
said,  in  fact,  to  be  the  finest  horse  ever  painted. 
In  the  grand  cabinet  is  a  head  of  Rubens,  by  him 
self,  which  is  a  masterpiece  of  portrait  painting. 
Several  rooms  are  hung  with  Gobelin  tapestry, 
representing  the  military  achievements  of  the  first 
duke,  and  representing  them  so  well  that  not  only 
are  the  figures  in  each  scene  well  conceived  and 
executed,  but  even  the  expression  of  countenance 
is  preserved  as  in  a  painting.  The  library  is 
truly  splendid.  It  is  one  hundred  and  eighty-three 
feet  long  and  thirty-one  feet  wide ;  and  its  pillars, 
arches,  &c.?  are  of  marble,  and  richly  carved.  A 
statue  of  Queen  Anne  in  her  royal  robes,  by  Rys- 
bach,  stands  at  the  top  of  the  hall ;  and  in  other 
situations  there  are  many  fine  statues  and  busts, 
both  modern  and  antique.  Among  them  is  a  bust 
of  Alexander  the  Great,  from  the  ruins  of  Hercu- 
laneum.  ...... 

I  hired  a  gig  at  the  inn  to  carry  me  to  Oxford, 
the  distance  of  which  city  from  Woodstock  is  but 
eight  miles. 

OXFORD.  A  place  of  palaces,  and  pinnacles, 
and  spires  ;  a  city  of  delight  and  glory  !  where 
learning  wears  the  diadem  and  sceptre,  and  is 


JOURNAL.  69 

clothed  in  purple  and  furred  robes,  and  is  lodged 
in  royal  houses  ;  where  her  walk  is  through  fretted 
aisles,  and  beneath  gilded  domes  ;  where  her 
contemplations  are  among  the  effigies  of  the  wise 
and  mighty  wrho  sleep,  and  where  her  seat  is  with 
the  noblest  in  the  realm.  It  is  really  quite  elevat 
ing  to  visit  this  city,  and  I  think  no  one,  who  has 
any  taste  or  respect  for  literature  or  antiquity,  can 
pass  through  the  High  street  of  Oxford  without 
emotion  ;  without  having  his  soul  filled  with  ven 
eration  and  pleasure,  at  the  view  of  the  long- 
extended  lines  of  colleges  and  halls,  which  were 
raised  by  the  munificence  of  kings,  and  prelates, 
and  great  men,  and  which  have  nursed  so  many 
of  the  choicest  spirits  of  so  many  ages.  Two  or 
three  times  did  I  walk  up  and  down  this  noble 
street,  absorbed  in  the  crowding  thoughts  and  as 
sociations  with  which  the  place  is  connected  in 
the  mind  of  every  votary  of  learning,  though  he 
be  the  humblest,  and  enjoying,  in  reality,  a  scene 
which  my  imagination  had  often  busied  itself  in 
painting  and  varying.  The  buildings  of  the  uni 
versity  are  dispersed  in  the  city  without  any  order 
of  arrangement,  though  the  great  body  of  them 
are  situated  on  each  side  of  High  street,  either 
directly  upon  or  very  near  it.  The  shops,  dwell 
ing-houses  and  churches,  which  are  mixed  with 
the  colleges  in  this  street,  are  some  of  them  ele- 


70  MISCELLANIES. 

gant,  all  of  them  handsome  ;  and  it  is  terminated 
on  the  left,  toward  London,  by  the  beautifully 
proportioned  tower  of  Magdalen  College,  which 
alone  might  be  a  sufficient  boast  for  any  city. 
The  stone  of  which  the  university  buildings  are 
chiefly  constructed  is  of  a  sombre  gray  color,  and 
peels  off  in  flakes  on  its  external  surface  ;  not  so, 
however,  as  to  cause  essential  injury  to  the  struct 
ure,  except  in  its  parts  of  nicer  workmanship. 
Evening  approached,  and  I  deferred  viewing  the 
interior  of  the  colleges  till  the  next  morning. 

July  29.  I  had  grown  so  impatient,  on  various 
accounts,  to  be  in  London,  that  I  resolved,  very 
unwisely,  I  am  afraid,  to  see  as  much  of  the  uni 
versity  as  I  could  this  morning,  and  to  leave  Ox 
ford  in  the  afternoon  ;  trusting  that  on  some  future 
day  I  should  be  able  to  revisit  it,  and  satisfy  my 
curiosity  more  thoroughly.  Taking  with  me  one 
of  the  men  who  serve  as  guides  to  the  university, 
I  went  first  to  All  Souls  College,  the  entrance  to 
which  is  from  High  street.  The  buildings  of  this 
college  are  disposed  into  two  quadrangles,  the  old 
and  the  new,  the  latter  of  which  is  considerably  the 
largest.  Leading  me  through  the  old  and  into  the 
new  square,  my  guide  summoned  the  porter  ;  for 
it  is  the  office  of  the  guides  merely  to  put  stran 
gers  into  the  best  way  of  seeing  things,  and  not 
actually  to  show  the  rooms ;  this  part  of  the  busi- 


JOURNAL. 


ness  belonging  to  the  porter  or  other  servant  of 
the  several  colleges.  A  respectable  looking  old 
gentleman  in  black  came  out  from  one  of  the 
doors,  with  a  bunch  of  keys  in  his  hand,  and  con 
ducted  us  first  into  the  hall  or  dining-room  of 
the  society.  Here  were  shown  to  me  many  fine 
portraits  of  distinguished  members  of  the  college  ; 
and  a  bust,  by  Roubilliac,  of  Archbishop  Chichele, 
the  founder.  We  then  ascended  a  flight  of  steps 
and  entered  the  library,  which  is  one  of  the  hand 
somest  in  Oxford.  The  room  is  one  hundred  and 
ninety-eight  feet  in  length,  and  about  thirty  in 
breadth,  and,  besides  its  painted  windows,  is  de 
corated  with  a  large  number  of  bronze  busts  of 
distinguished  fellows  of  the  college,  among  which 
I  noticed  those  of  Sir  Christopher  Wren,  Arch 
bishop  Sheldon,  Jeremy  Taylor,  and  Dr.  Syden- 
ham.  Descending  from  the  library,  we  crossed 
the  court  and  came  next  to  the  chapel,  which  is 
much  admired  for  its  beauty  and  simplicity.  At 
the  western  end,  as  you  enter,  is  a  most  glorious 
statue  of  Sir  William  Blackstone,  by  Bacon.  He 
is  sitting  in  a  chair,  dressed  in  his  judicial  robes, 
resting  one  hand  upon  a  volume  of  his  Commen 
taries,  and  holding  the  Magna  Charta  in  the  other. 
The  face  is  full  of  the  profoundest  thought,  and  in 
the  position  of  the  figure  and  the  conduct  of  the 


72  MISCELLANIES. 

drapery,  there  is  the  utmost  grace,  correctness  and 
dignity. 

This  part  of  the  chapel  is  called  the  ante- 
chapel,  and  is  divided  from  the  other  by  a  hand 
some  screen,  the  work  of  Sir  Christopher  Wren ; 
passing  under  which,  you  walk  into  the  inner 
chapel,  where  service  is  performed.  Over  the 
altar,  at  the  eastern  end,  is  one  of  the  best  pic 
tures,  as  it  is  said,  of  Raffaello  Mengs.  The 
subject  is  the  appearance  of  Jesus,  after  his  resur 
rection,  to  Mary  Magdalene.  "  Touch  me  not," 
says  our  Savior,  "  for  I  am  not  yet  ascended  to 
my  Father."  The  sorrow  of  Mary  at  this  pro 
hibition,  mingled  at  the  same  time  with  her  joy  at 
seeing  him  again,  is  well  conceived  and  admi 
rably  expressed. 

From  All  Souls  we  went  to  New  College, 
which  was  founded  by  the  celebrated  William 
of  Wykeham,  in  the  year  1380.  The  gardens 
belonging  to  it  are  rendered  interesting  by  being 
in  part  surrounded  by  the  old  city  wall :  from 
them  there  is  also  the  best  view  of  the  college. 
Nothing  calls  for  the  particular  attention  of  the 
visiter  in  any  of  the  public  rooms  excepting  the 
chapel,  and  that  is  the  most  beautiful  in  the  uni 
versity.  His  spirit  must  be  of  no  enviable  char 
acter  which  does  not  bo\v  itself  on  entering  its 
walls,  and  acknowledge  that  the  place  is  holy. 


JOURNAL.  73 

It  is  not  spacious  and  lofty,  for  that  were  incon 
sistent  with  the  purpose  which  it  serves;  but 
every  part  is  in  its  due  place  and  proportion ; 
there  is  no  superfluity  of  ornament,  and  that 
which  exists  is  of  exquisite  beauty  ;  nothing 
offends  the  eye  or  the  taste,  but  everything  unites 
in  disposing  the  mind  to  profound  worship  and 
religious  meditation.  Five  tall  and  richly-painted 
Gothic  windows  rise  on  each  side  of  the  chapel, 
and  admit  a  solemn  twilight,  dyed  with  their  own 
deep  coloring.  Depicted  on  these  are  the  images 
of  saints  a  ad  apostles,  with  their  appropriate  em 
blems,  and  of  the  size  of  life.  The  painting  is 
modern,  but  in  the  best  style  of  the  art.  Imme 
diately  over  the  communion-table  are  five  subjects 
from  Scripture,  executed  in  alto-relievo,  and  with 
a  surprising  delicacy  of  workmanship,  by  West- 
macott ;  and  above  these  are  four  rows  of  splen 
did  Gothic  niches,  occupying  entirely  the  remain 
der  of  the  eastern  end.  At  the  west  end  is  a 
magnificent  window,  the  painting  of  which  is 
pronounced  to  be  one  of  the  best  specimens,  if 
not  the  very  first,  of  modern  window-painting  in 
England.  The  lower  part  is  taken  up  with  em 
blematic  figures  of  what  are  called  the  four  car 
dinal  and  three  Christian  virtues:  Temperance, 
Fortitude,  Justice,  and  Prudence ;  and  Faith, 
Hope,  and  Charity.  On  the  upper  part  is  painted 


74  MISCELLANIES. 

the  Nativity.  The  light  of  the  picture  is  made 
to  stream  from  the  child  upon  the  different  groups 
who  are  hastening  to  pay  their  homage  to  the 
new-born  Savior.  Among  the  most  distant  of 
these  are  the  portraits  of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds, 
who  designed,  and  Jervais,  who  executed,  the 
subject.  A  great  curiosity  in  this  chapel  is  the 
crosier  of  William  of  Wykeham.  It  is  of  silver, 
gilt,  and  seven  feet  long  ;  highly  adorned  with 
gothic  open-work,  and  containing  within  the  crook 
a  kneeling  image  of  the  munificent  bishop. 

Our  next  visit  was  to  the  theatre,  a  fine  edifice 
built  by  Sir  Christopher  Wren,  at  the  expense  of 
Archbishop  Sheldon,  and  on  the  plan  of  the  thea 
tre  of  Marcellus,  at  Rome.  It  is  used  for  public 
exhibitions,  and  is  capable  of  containing  three 
thousand  persons.  On  days  of  ceremony,  when 
the  students  and  officers  appear  in  full  dress,  and 
ladies  witness  the  performances  from  the  galleries, 
the  scene  is  said  to  be  extremely  splendid  and 
striking.  But  on  the  day  when  the  allied  sove 
reigns  of  England,  Russia,  and  Prussia,  with 
Prince  Metternich,  Blucher,  &c.,  visited  the  uni 
versity  and  were  presented  with  degrees  in  this 
theatre,  the  show  must  have  been,  as  I  remember  it 
was  described  to  be  in  the  prints  of  the  day,  from 
which  the  American  papers  borrowed  the  account, 
of  unusual  pomp  and  brilliancy.  On  raised  seats 


JOURNAL.  75 

in  the  northern  or  semicircular  part  of  the  building, 
sat  the  Prince  Regent,  with  the  other  monarchs, 
the  one  on  his  right  hand,  and  the  other  on  his  left  \ 
on  a  space  below  was  the  chair  of  the  Chancellor, 
Lord  Grenville,  and  beside  him  the  Duchess  of 
Oldenburg.  Princes,  noblemen,  masters  of  arts 
and  distinguished  men,  filled  the  spacious  area. 
Students  took  their  places  in  the  upper  galleries  ; 
all  in  their  respective  robes,  or  in  court  dresses  ; 
while  between  these,  in  the  lower  galleries,  like  a 
sparkling  zone  of  grace  and  beauty,  were  the  fair 
est  in  the  land.  This  was  in  the  year  1814.  The 
chairs,  covered  with  velvet  and  ornamented  with 
gold,  on  which  the  three  sovereigns  sat,  are  still 
kept  here,  and  shown  to  strangers. 

Here  I  dismissed  my  guide,  having  first  inquired 
of  him  the  way  to  the  house  of  the  Rev.  Thomas 
Gaisford,  Regius  professor  of  Greek,  to  whom  I 
had  a  letter.  As  it  was  the  time  of  vacation,  all 
the  students  and  most  of  the  officers  of  the  uni 
versity  were  away,  but  this  gentleman  was  one  of 
the  few  who  remained  in  Oxford,  and  I  fortunately 
found  him  at  home.  Having  learnt  my  intention 
of  leaving  the  city  so  soon,  he  politely  offered  to 
show  me  the  Bodleian  library,  and  any  of  its  treas 
ures  which  I  might  particularly  desire  to  see.  I 
was  pretty  well  fatigued  already,  by  my  morning's 
labors,  but  this  was  a  temptation  which  I  could 


76  MISCELLANIES. 

not  resist ;  and  the  professor,  putting  on  his  gown 
and  square  cap,  without  which  insignia  no  member 
of  the  university  appears  abroad,  led  the  way  to  the 
grand  magazine  of  books.  The  original  library 
consisted  of  two  parallel  rooms,  joined  together 
by  a  third  leading  from  the  centre  of  each,  the 
whole  forming  a  connected  set  of  apartments  in 
the  form  of  the  letter  H.  Part  of  the  books  are 
ranged  along  the  walls,  and  part  are  disposed  in 
recesses  or  alcoves.  These  rooms  contain  not, 
however,  by  any  means,  the  full  treasures  of  the 
existing  library.  They  have  long  since  been  filled, 
and  the  rest  of  the  books  take  their  places  in  a 
number  of  smaller  apartments  within  the  same 
walls.  One  of  these  apartments  is  entirely  occu 
pied  by  a  collection  of  topographical  works,  said 
to  be  the  most  complete  in  the  kingdom  ;  the 
greater  part,  if  not  the  whole,  of  which  were  left 
to  the  library  by  the  antiquarian,  Gough.  As  I 
had  expressed  a  wish  to  see  some  of  their  earliest 
manuscripts,  Professor  G.  handed  me,  among  oth 
ers,  the  famous  Codex  Laudianus,  containing  the 
Acts  of  the  Apostles,  a  limited  edition  of  which, 
approaching  half  way  to  a  facsimile,  was  pub 
lished  in  the  last  century.  It  is  in  very  good  pre 
servation,  and  bids  fair  to  last  some  centuries 
longer.  Some  very  richly  illuminated  books  and 
manuscripts  were  also  shown  to  me.  Among  these 


JOURNAL.  77 

there  was  a  folio,  on  each  page  of  which  were  six 
or  eight  highly-finished  pictures,  surrounded  by  a 
bright  border  of  gold. 

In  the  same  building  with  the  library  is  the  pic 
ture  gallery.  Here  are  portraits  of  founders  and 
benefactors,  poets,  scholars  and  kings ;  a  fine 
statue  of  William,  Earl  of  Pembroke,  in  bronze, 
copies  of  Raphael's  cartoons,  &c.  Among  other 
things,  a  portrait  burnt  on  wood  with  a  poker  by 
Dr.  Griffith,  master  of  University  College,  is  wor 
thy  of  notice,  both  on  account  of  the  singular  me 
thod  of  execution,  and  the  real  merit  of  the  piece, 
which  you  would  take,  at  first  sight,  to  be  painted 
with  some  dark  and  uniform  color. 

As  I  had  engaged  my  place  in  the  stage-coach, 
it  was  now  time  for  me  to  be  gone  ;  so  I  snatched 
a  hasty  meal  at  the  inn,  bade  farewell  to  Oxford, 
and  long  before  the  sun  had  touched  the  western 
hills,  had  arrived  at  Henley-upon-Thames. 

This  town  is  prettily  situated  upon  the  river, 
which  lends  it  its  name  to  distinguish  it  from  an 
other  Henley,  in  Warwickshire.  There  is  nothing 
here  to  arrest  a  stranger's  notice.  Before  it  grew 
dark,  I  walked  about  a  mile  along  the  banks  of 
the  river,  opposite  the  town,  and  found  the  cool 
ness  and  quiet  very  refreshing  after  my  dusty  ride. 
A  small  boat  here  and  there  upon  the  stream,  held 
a  patient  little  party 'of  fishers,  and  now  and  then 

7* 


78  MISCELLANIES. 

I  met  a  few  of  the  inhabitants  enjoying  their  even 
ing  promenade,  as  well  as  myself.  The  walk 
would  be  a  delightful  one  were  it  lined  with  trees, 
but  it  wants  shade  sadly. 

July  30.  This  afternoon  I  seated  myself  in  the 
coach  which  was  to  take  me  to  London.  Leaving 
Henley,  we  passed  through  a  corner  of  Berkshire 
to  the  village  of  Maidenhead,  a  little  beyond 
which  I  had  a  good  view,  on  my  right,  of  the  no 
ble  towers  of  Windsor's  royal  castle,  which  I 
should  have  known  at  the  first  sight,  if  it  was  only 
for  the  resemblance  between  them  and  their  hum 
ble  representatives  on  the  outside  wrappers  of 
Windsor  soap.  We  rode  next  through  a  small 
piece  of  Buckinghamshire  into  Middlesex,  and 
soon  came  to  the  famous  Hounslow  Heath,  which 
is  beginning  to  be  built  upon,  and  with  its  loneli 
ness  is  losing  its  terrifying  celebrity.  The  paved 
streets  over  which  we  were  now  jolted  with  little 
intermission,  the  long  lines  of  shops  and  houses, 
and  the  rattling  of  innumerable  carts,  coaches  and 
carriages,  indicated  our  approach  to  the  vast  me 
tropolis.  Indeed,  the  thickly-built  villages  melt 
one  into  the  other  with  scarce  any  perceptible 
separation  ;  and  although  you  are  not  said  to  be  in 
London  till  you  have  passed  the  corner  of  Hyde 
Park,  it  is,  in  reality,  London  for  some  miles  on 
the  outside  of  this  nominal  boundary.  The  vil- 


JOUKNAL.  79 

lages  still  retain  their  names ;  but  they  may  be  re 
garded  rather  as  so  many  quarters  of  the  great  city 
than  as  distinct  and  independent  portions  of  terri 
tory.  The  immense  sea  of  population  continually 
increasing  by  a  thousand  streams  of  tribute,  and 
advancing  wave  upon  wave  in  every  direction, 
spreads  itself  wide  and  more  wide  over  the  land, 
and  objects  which  once  were  high  above  its  utmost 
tide,  are  now  in  the  very  midst  of  its  waters.  It 
is  a  curious  fact,  that  Northumberland  house,  near 
Charing  Cross,  which,  at  the  present  time,  is  in 
the  centre  of  London,  was  described,  and  that  not 
very  long  ago,  as  being  situated  in  the  village  of 
Charing  ;  and  that  the  Earl  of  Burlington,  on  be 
ing  asked  why  he  built  his  house  in  Piccadilly,  so 
far  out  of  town,  replied,  "  because  I  was  deter 
mined  to  have  no  building  beyond  me." 

The  coach  carried  us  to  the  Belle  Savage  Inn, 
with  the  name  of  which  I  had  long  been  acquaint 
ed  ;  though  at  the  time  when  I  was  lazily  reading 
in  some  English  magazine  an  inquiry  into  the 
origin  of  this  appellation,  I  little  thought  that  I 
ever  should  have  slept  in  the  house  which  bears 
it.  And  here  terminates  my  journey  from  Liver 
pool  to  London  —  a  distance  of  two  hundred  and 
five  miles. 

July  31.  In  the  morning  I  walked  as  far  as 
St.  Paul's,  and  there,  taking  a  hackney-coach,  I 


80  MISCELLANIES. 

proceeded  to  deliver  some  of  my  letters  ;  the  num 
ber  of  this  first  carriage  in  which  I  rode  in  Lon 
don,  was  somewhere  between  1400  and  1500.  Be 
fore  dinner  time  I  had  taken  lodgings  at  Dick's 
coffee-house,  once  the  resort  of  Addison  and  his 
knot  of  wits.  It  is  now  much  frequented  by  my 
countrymen,  though  still  the  inhabitants  of  the 
Temple,  to  whom  this  house  is  a  near  neighbor,  and 
several  distinguished  literati,  occasionally  dine  here. 
August  l.  As  I  was  now  in  London,  I  went, 
of  course,  to  see  the  London  sights.  My  state  of 
health  would  not  allow  of  my  climbing  to  the  top 
of  the  monument,  or  to  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's, 
and  I  therefore  contented  myself  with  those  ob 
jects  which  were  more  within  my  reach.  My 
first  visit  was,  through  the  introduction  of  a  friend, 
to  a  collection  of  pictures  in  Pall  Mall,  belong 
ing  to  Mr.  Angerstein,  a  wealthy  merchant.  It 
is  a  choice,  though  not  a  very  large  one.  It  boasts 
of  five  lovely  Claudes,  and  the  series  of  Hogarth's 
Marriage  a  la  Mode  ;  besides  some  good  portraits 
of  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,  a  Rape  of  the  Sabines, 
by  Rubens,  and  several  other  pictures  by  the  first 
masters.  Hogarth  struck  me  more  forcibly,  how 
ever,  than  anything  else  here  ;  both  because  this 
was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  seen  a  painting  by 
him,  and  because  he  is  in  himself  and  in  his  way, 
so  inimitably  fine.  His  coloring  is  said  to  be  very 


JOURNAL.  81 

poor.  It  may  be  so  —  I  am  not  connoisseur 
enough  to  tell  whether  it  is  or  not ;  but  I  certainly 
never  so  fully  appreciated  the  power  and  the  satire 
of  Hogarth,  from  any  of  the  numerous  engrav 
ings  which  I  have  seen  of  his  works,  as  I  did  from 
these  paintings.  This  was  partly,  no  doubt,  be 
cause  in  the  picture  the  details  are  more  fully 
brought  out,  and  sooner  perceived  and  understood, 
than  they  are  in  the  engravings,  and  it  is  from  these 
details  that  we  gather  a  great  part  of  the  story, 
and  are  made  to  feel  the  whole  weight  of  the 
satire.  No  painter  has  ever  approached  Ho 
garth's  excellence  in  the  truth,  the  wit,  and  the 
multiplicity  of  these  subordinate,  though  powerful 
components  of  his  subjects.  His  scenes  are  al 
ways  extremely  well  stocked,  and  yet  there  is  not 
a  bit  of  china  without  a  purpose,  nor  is  a  single  fly 
introduced  unfurnished  with  his  errand.  How 
plainly  does  the  cobweb  over  the  poor's  box  tell 
us  that  it  had  long  been  empty,  and  that  what 
ever  might  be  the  virtues  of  the  Sleeping  Congre 
gation,  charity,  like  watchfulness,  was  not  among 
the  number. 

Leaving  Mr.  Angerstein's,  I  finished  my  morn 
ing  in  the  Gallery  of  the  British  Institution,  which 
is  a  few  steps  farther  up  Pall  Mall,  and  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  way.  This  institution  is  un 
der  the  patronage  of  the  king,  and  is  supported 


82  MISCELLANIES. 

by  the  subscriptions  of  a  long  list  of  nobility  and 
wealthy  men.  Its  object  is  to  diffuse  a  love  of  the 
arts,  and  furnish  means  of  improvement  to  artists, 
by  annual  exhibitions  of  pictures  of  interest  and 
excellence,  which  are  gratuitously  loaned  for  the 
season  from  private  collections.  The  exhibition 
of  the  present  year  consisted  of  a  noble  assemblage 
of  portraits,  illustrative  of  British  history  and  bio 
graphy.  Three  spacious  apartments,  connected 
by  arched  entrances,  were  filled  with  the  likenesses 
of  the  greatest,  the  wisest,  and  the  loveliest  of 
Britain's  sons  and  daughters.  Here  were  kings 
and  queens,  ladies  and  lords,  philosophers  and 
jesters,  warriors  and  bishops,  statesmen,  orators, 
poets  and  painters.  The  whole  number  of  por 
traits  was  one  hundred  and  eighty-three  ;  and  more 
days  should  have  been  given  to  studying  them 
than  I  could  devote  hours  ;  for  I  found  that  the 
number  and  variety  of  the  objects,  together  with 
their  peculiar  interest,  wearied  me  as  much  as  the 
most  fatiguing  exercise.  Among  the  paintings  in 
the  north  room  was  a  portrait  of  William  Pitt,  by 
Hoppner.  "  O,  there  is  Pitt,"  said  a  Cambridge 
professor,  (Professor  Smythe,)  on  coming  into  the 
room  where  a  portrait  of  him  was  hanging, — 
"  there  is  Pitt,  in  all  the  sarcastic  sublimity  of  his 
soul."  This  pithy  description  of  the  minister's 
character  of  countenance  is  as  just  as  it  is  terse, 


JOURNAL.  83 

You  can  never  mistake  a  likeness  of  Pitt.  There 
is  always  a  settled  and  irrepressible  sneer  upon  it, 
an  habitual  expression  of  superiority,  the  look  of 
a  man,  who,  conscious  of  his  mighty  powers,  had 
accustomed  himself  to  consider  all  other  men  as 
his  inferiors,  and  who  cared  not  if  his  features  an 
nounced  what  his  heart  believed  ;  and  thus  intel 
lectual  command  and  the  proudest  confidence  of 
ability  are  written  in  every  line  of  them.  His  char 
acter  is  still  estimated  here  by  party  feeling.  The 
dissenters,  the  whigs,  and  the  opposition  in  gen 
eral,  look  upon  him  as  a  man  who  sacrificed  every 
thing  to  ambition,  who  nearly  ruined  the  country 
by  his  measures,  and  who,  by  the  influence  of  his 
political  principles,  still  lives  and  acts  in  the  meas 
ures  of  a  hated  administration  ;  while  the  other 
party  are  warm  advocates  of  the  excellence  of  all 
his  plans,  and  unbounded  in  their  worship  of  the 
"  pilot  who  weathered  the  storm." 

The  first  in  order  among  the  portraits  in  the 
middle  room,  was  that  of  Anthony  Ashley  Cooper, 
Earl  of  Shaftesbury,  by  Sir  Godfrey  Kneller,  be 
longing  to  the  present  Earl  of  Shaftesbury.  The 
talents  and  attainments  of  this  nobleman  were 
most  extraordinary.  Charles  II.  said  of  him,  that 
"  he  knew  more  law  than  all  his  judges,  and  more 
divinity  than  all  his  bishops."  The  same  monarch 
once  addressed  him  thus ;  "  I  believe,  Shaftesbury, 


84  MISCELLANIES. 

thou  art  the  wickedest  dog  in  England."  "  May 
it  please  your  majesty,"  returned  the  lord  chan 
cellor,  "  of  a  subject,  I  believe  I  am." 

August  3.  A  stranger  has  no  need,  after  all, 
to  run  about  this  city  after  shows  ;  for  it  is  all  a 
show  ;  every  street  is  full  of  objects  of  curiosity, 
and  every  step  is  arrested  by  something  or  other, 
which,  to  the  inhabitant  of  a  different  country  es 
pecially,  is  novel  and  amusing.  Week  after  week 
might  be  spent  very  pleasantly,  in  examining 
the  shop-windows  alone.  In  these,  the  different 
tradesmen  put  forth  all  their  taste,  and  endeavor 
so  to  arrange  their  commodities  as  to  attract  the 
eyes,  and  tempt  the  entrance,  of  passengers.  Here 
the  draper  unrolls  his  richest  patterns,  and  festoons 
his  glossy  silks  in  the  most  fanciful  dispositions ; 
and  there  the  jeweller  displays  his  shining  store  of 
plate  and  jewels,  watches,  rings,  musical-boxes, 
and  other  toys  for  grown  up  children  ;  while  far 
ther  on  is  a  vast  collection  of  dolls,  rocking-horses, 
baby-houses,  merry-andrews,  pewter  soldiers,  &c., 
for  children  who  are  not  grown  up.  In  this 
window,  a  tinman,  anxious  to  prove  the  wonder 
ful  power  of  his  newly-invented  roasting-machine, 
has  put  it  in  the  most  conspicuous  situation, 
with  a  wooden  fowl  in  it,  twirling  before  a  painted 
fire,  from  morning  till  night ;  and  in  that,  an 
equally  ambitious  manufacturer  of  cork  legs  has 


JOURNAL.  85 

exhibited  one  with  a  black  silk  stocking  and  highly 
polished  shoe,  as  a  notice  to  all  who  may  unfortu 
nately  be  in  want  of  that  important  member.  For 
those  whose  literary  researches  terminate  with  the 
titles  of  books,  there  is  reading  enough  in  the  open 
air  for  a  twelvemonth  ;  and  those  who  like  to  look 
at  prints,  but  do  not  like  very  well  to  pay  for 
them,  may  be  gratified  at  the  windows  of  the 
printseller. 

There  are  many  other  circumstances  to  interest 
one  in  traversing  the  streets.  You  meet  at  every 
corner  with  names  which  various  reading  has 
familiarized  to  you,  almost  from  the  time  of  your 
being  able  to  read  at  aft :  the  Strand,  High  Hoi- 
born,  Temple  Bar,  Newgate,  Smithfield,  St.  Giles, 
Grub  street,  Rag-fair,  Covent  Garden,  Russell 
Square,  Grosvenor  Square,  &c.,  are  seen,  with  all 
their  various  associations  about  them,  and  give  rise 
to  endless  recollections  of  history,  poetry  and  fic 
tion,  and  men,  manners  and  scenes,  both  in  high 
life  and  low.  Then  there  are  the  beggars,  who, 
every  body  knows,  carry  on  as  regular  and  sys 
tematic  a  trade  as  the  fishmonger  or  grocer.  The 
various  cries,  too,  have  their  interest,  and  none 
the  less  from  their  being  utterly  unintelligible,  ex 
cept  to  the  initiated.  Among  all  that  I  have 
heard,  I  have  not  yet  been  able  to  understand  one 
without  looking  into  the  cart,  barrow  or  basket  in 
s 


86  MISCELLANIES. 

which  the  crier's  commodity  was  carried ;  and 
yet  there  is  a  peculiar  tone  and  mark  about  each 
of  them  which  is  perfectly  comprehended  by  ser 
vants  and  other  purchasers.  Again,  there  are  the 
street  musicians,  ballad  singers  and  showmen,  to 
attract  your  ears  and  eyes,  and  call  for  your  half 
pence. 

As  I  was  going,  this  afternoon,  through  Lincoln's 
Inn  Fields,  I  came  upon  a  crowd  who  were  gath 
ered  round  an  exhibitor  of  that  important  person 
age,  Punch  and  his  associates.  A  wooden  stage 
or  box,  about  three  feet  square,  was  elevated 
against  a  wall,  at  the  distance  of  eight  feet  from 
the  ground  ;  and  curtains  hanging  from  it  and 
drawn  close,  concealed  the  man  who  played  the 
puppets,  and  carried  on  their  conversations  for 
them.  The  figures  came  forward  on  the  front  of 
the  box,  enacted  a  variety  of  ludicrous  gestures, 
chattered  nonsense  together,  pummelled  each 
other,  and  then  made  their  exits.  There  were 
seldom  more  than  two  on  the  stage  at  the  same 
time,  and  Punch  generally  made  one  of  them,  be 
ing  by  far  the  most  conspicuous  character  in  the 
company.  I  left  the  group  while  he  and  Old  Nick 
were  engaged  in  a  terrible  and  doubtful  battle. 

August  5.  I  breakfasted  this  morning  with  the 
champion  and  chief  of  living  Unitarians,  the  Rev. 
Thomas  Belsham  ;  —  a  round,  sensible,  good- 


JOURNAL.  87 

natured  head,  a  short  person,  and  very  corpulent ; 
kind  and  affable  in  his  manners,  interesting  and 
communicative  in  his  conversation,  and  devoid  of 
all  arrogance  and  affectation  in  his  address.  He 
inquired  particularly  about  our  common  friends 
in  America,  and  spoke  with  affectionate  remem 
brance  of  my  lamented  predecessor,  Mr.  Thacher. 
I  observed  with  pleasure,  on  the  walls  of  the  room, 
beside  the  portraits  of  most  of  the  distinguished 
Unitarians,  those  of  several  of  our  own  great  men  ; 
and  this  leads  me  to  remark  that  a  day  or  two  ago 
I  saw,  at  a  shop-window  in  High  Holborn.  plaster 
busts  of  Washington,  Hamilton,  and  one  other 
who  certainly  has,  in  our  late  war  with  England, 
evinced  great  military  talent,  General  Jackson.  I 
thought  at  the  time  that  it  was  singular  that  his 
likeness  should  have  travelled  to  London  so  soon, 
considering  the  tardy  justice  which  is  here  paid  to 
the  goodness  or  greatness  of  anything  American, 
and  the  little  anxiety  that  is  felt  concerning  not 
only  the  faces,  but  the  characters,  achievements,  or 
even  the  names,  of  those  whom  we  have  delighted 
to  honor,  and  who  will  one  day  take  their  pjace 
and  rank  on  the  page  of  history  with  the  proudest 
who  have  figured  there  before  them. 

August  6.  I  dined  with  Mr.  Belsham,  and  heard 
him  preach  both  parts  of  the  day.  His  sermons 
were  by  far  the  best  that  I  have  yet  heard  in  Eng- 


88  MISCELLANIES. 

land  ;  full  of  thought,  and  calculated  to  set  one's 
thoughts  to  work.  He  used  no  gesture  whatever  ; 
his  hands  hung  unemployed  by  his  side,  or  were 
only  employed  to  turn  the  leaves  of  his  manuscript. 
The  interior  of  the  chapel  is  neat  and  simple,  and 
under  the  same  roof  with  the  minister's  house  ; 
there  being  a  communication  between  them  by  a 
door,  an  excellent  accommodation  to  the  preacher 
in  hot,  cold,  or  bad  weather  of  any  kind.  The 
premises  in  Essex  street  are  the  same  which  were 
taken  and  improved  by  Mr.  B.'s  predecessor,  the 
Rev.  Theophilus  Lindsey.  The  congregation  was 
tolerably  numerous  in  the  morning,  notwithstand 
ing  the  rain  ;  but  very  thin  in  the  afternoon.  This 
was,  I  understood,  the  usual  course  of  alternation  : 
the  house  being  well  filled,  and  often  crowded,  in 
the  first  service,  and  almost  deserted  in  the  second. 
On  my  leaving  him,  Mr.  B.  presented  me  with  a 
copy  of  his  second  edition  of  the  life  of  Lindsey. 
August  8.  Among  a  number  of  shows  which, 
as  it  afterwards  proved,  I  most  unfortunately  and 
unwisely  wrearied  myself  in  visiting  to-day,  the 
principal  were  the  menagerie  in  Exeter  'Change, 
and  Miss  Linwood's  exhibition  of  needle-work,  in 
Leicester  Square.  The  collection  of  wild  animals 
at  Exeter  'Change  is  the  largest  and  best  I  ever 
saw.  It  is  distributed  into  three  rooms ;  two 
large  and  the  other  small,  beside  a  separate  one 


JOURNAL. 


89 


for  an  elephant.  In  the  lower  room  were  three 
lions  ;  one  of  which  an  artist  was  engaged  in  tak 
ing  a  model  of,  in  clay  ;  in  the  den  of  another  a 
dog  was  living  on  the  best  terms  possible  with  his 
terrible  friend ;  and  while  I  was  in  the  apartment, 
the  third  set  up  such  a  tremendous  roar,  that 
though  I  knew  he  was  perfectly  well  secured  by 
stout  substantial  bars  of  wrought  iron,  I  must  con 
fess  to  a  little  inward  trepidation  ;  and  I  thought 
afterwards  that  if,  as  it  is  said,  all  the  beasts  of  the 
forest  quake  when  they  but  hear  their  monarch's 
voice,  I  could  not  blame  them  for  it.  In  the  small 
room  there  was  a  boa-constrictor,  about  as  large 
round  as  one's  arm,  but  how  long  I  could  not  tell ; 
for  he  had  coiled  himself  up  in  many  a  curious 
fold,  and  thus  he  lay  in  quite  a  sluggish  state,  upon 
a  blanket,  and  unconfined  by  any  cage  or  enclos 
ure  whatever.  This  certainly  looked  like  dan 
ger  ;  but  the  boy  who  attended  said  there  was 
none  to  be  feared.  I  suppose  its  transportation 
and  the  entire  change  of  all  its  habits  had  subdued 
it,  and  deprived  it  of  all  activity  and  ferocity. 

Miss  Linwood's  exhibition  was  highly  gratify 
ing  to  me.  Her  magic  needle  has  imitated  with 
force  and  truth  the  best  productions  of  the  paint 
er's  art ;  and  that  not  only  in  the  forms  and  colors 
of  inanimate  nature,  of  trees  and  rocks  and  run 
ning  waters,  but  in  the  hues  and  the  expressions 

8* 


90  MISCELLANIES. 

of  the  human  countenance  also.  A  flight  of  steps 
conducted  me  into  a  spacious  hall,  one  side  of 
which  was  hung  with  these  beautiful  pieces  of 
needlework,  while  the  other  was  furnished  with 
sofas,  on  which  the  visiter  might  examine  them  at 
his  ease.  Reclining  here,  the  delusion  was  per 
fect  ;  I  could  hardly  persuade  myself  that  I  was 
not  looking  at  real  paintings,  although  the  gallery 
was  not  more  than  thirty  feet  in  breadth  ;  and  it 
was  not  till  I  had  approached  almost  near  enough 
to  touch  the  work,  that  I  perceived  the  worsted 
threads  winding  their  mazes  through  it,  and  by 
their  delicate  gradation  and  fitness  of  shade  ren 
dering  it  the  wonder  that  it  was.  This  gallery 
was  chiefly  filled  with  landscapes,  rural  subjects, 
and  still  life,  from  Ruysdael,  Westall,  Wilson, 
Morland,  Haughton,  &c.  On  the  left  there  was 
an  entrance  into  a  narrow  and  gloomy  passage, 
called  the  gothic  room. 

I  had  groped  so  far  along  this  passage  without 
meeting  with  a  single  object,  or  catching  one  ray 
of  light,  that  I  began  to  think  I  had  mistaken  my 
way  ;  when,  just  as  I  was  going  to  retrace  my 
steps,  I  was  suddenly  arrested  by  the  view  of  a 
dreary  cell,  in  which  were  several  figures  as  large 
as  life,  and  so  well  executed  that  they  had,  for  the 
first  unprepared  moment,  the  effect  of  life  itself. 
The  subject  was  the  prison  scene  of  Hubert  and 


JOURNAL.  91 

Arthur,  from  Northcote.     The  poor  prince  is  on 
his  knees  : 

O  !  save  me,  Hubert,  save  me  !  my  eyes  are  out 
Even  with  the  fierce  looks  of  these  bloody  men. 

The  light  is  introduced  into  the  cell  from  above  ; 
the  piece  of  needlework  itself  forms  one  side  of 
the  apartment,  while  partitions  of  wood  or  canvass 
are  painted  in  imitation  of  stones  to  make  up  the 
others.  You  then  pass  on  to  a  series  of  these 
small  apartments  ;  each  of  them  fitted  up  in  har 
mony  with  the  picture  it  contains,  and  well  fur 
nished  with  light ;  while  you  look  in  upon  them 
yourself  from  the  passage,  which  is  kept  entirely 
dark.  One  of  these  represents  a  cottage,  into  the 
half  open  casement  of  which  you  peep  and  see 
some  rosy-cheeked  children  by  a  blazing  fire  ; 
another  is  formed  into  the  interior  of  a  rocky  den, 
on  the  floor  of  which  are  two  or  three  lions  and 
a  lioness  reposing  ;  the  first  of  these  after  Gains 
borough,  and  the  other  from  Stubbs.  The  dispo 
sition  of  this  part  of  her  collection  does  as  much 
credit  to  the  inventive,  as  the  execution  does  to 
the  imitative,  powers  of  Miss  Linwood.  There  is 
still  another  small  room  containing  copies  of  Carlo 
Maratti's  Nativity,  Carlo  Dolci's  Salvator  Mundi, 
Raphael's  Madonna  della  Seggiola,  and  the  Dead 
Christ  of  Ludovico  Carracci. 


92  MISCELLANIES. 

On  the  night  of  this  day  I  was  unexpectedly 
and  sadly  convinced  that  I  had  relied  too  much  on 
my  strength,  and  greatly  injured  myself  by  a  too 
unguarded  indulgence  of  my  curiosity.  I  was 
attacked,  about  eleven  o'clock,  with  a  return  of 
hemoptysis,  which  confined  me  to  my  bed, 
brought  the  physician  once  more  to  my  chamber, 
deranged  my  plans  of  travelling,  and  inspired  me 
with  the  most  desponding  views  of  the  future.  By 
the  good  blessing  of  God,  however,  I  became 
strong  enough  in  the  course  of  a  week  to  be 
moved,  in  a  coach,  to  the  house  of  a  most  kind 
friend  and  countryman,  and  in  a  few  days  after  to 
take  short  walks  abroad.  One  of  these  walks  was 
to  the  painting  room  of  Sir  Thomas  Lawrence, 
who  lives  but  a  few  doors  from  us.  The  apart 
ment  was  filled  with  this  master's  portraits,  in 
different  states  of  progress.  Among  them,  a  fine 
one  of  the  duke  of  Wellington  appeared  to  be 
finished.  The  horse  in  the  picture  I  thought 
a  most  noble  animal.  I  was  charmed,  too,  with 
his  portraits  of  children  ;  they  looked  so  fresh,  and 
innocent,  and  happy,  and  beautiful  —  so  truly  like 
children.  And  what  lovely  pictures  were  those, 
in  which  the  child  was  grouped  with  its  angel 
mother  —  dancing  on  her  knee,  or  peeping  over 
her  shoulder  ;  and  how  different  from  those  com 
mon  family  pieces,  in  which  the  parent  is  intro- 


JOURNAL.  93 

duced,  sitting  as  bolt  upright  as  if  she  had  been 
soaked  in  starch,  and  the  child  staring  at  you  with 
its  round,  lack-lustre  eyes,  and  holding  a  posy 
which  seems  to  be  just  cut  out  from  a  rag  of  old- 
fashioned  room  paper  !  The  portrait  of  our  coun 
tryman,  West,  the  late  president  of  the  academy, 
was  here. 

September  4.  It  had  been  my  decided  and 
cherished  purpose,  before  I  was  taken  ill,  to  pro 
ceed  from  London  to  the  Continent,  and  pass  the 
coming  winter  in  Italy.  I  am  at  present,  how 
ever,  obviously  not  in  a  situation  to  contend  with 
the  fatigues  and  anxieties  of  such  a  journey ;  and 
my  physician  and  friends  strongly  advise  my  re 
maining  in  England.  The  southern  coast  of  De 
vonshire  is  represented  as  enjoying  an  exceedingly 
mild  climate,  and  as  being,  on  that  account,  a  fa 
vorite  resort  of  invalids  during  the  winter  months  ; 
and  I  have,  from  these  considerations,  determined 
on  making  some  spot  in  that  part  of  the  country 
my  residence,  till  the  warm  suns  of  spring  shall 
return,  and  bring  to  me,  if  it  so  please  Heaven, 
renewed  vigor  and  activity.  It  is  my  intention  to 
leave  the  metropolis  next  Friday. 

September  8.  This  being  the  day  fixed  upon 
for  the  commencement  of  my  journey  into  Devon 
shire,  I  started  at  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  in 
one  of  the  western  coaches,  which  was  to  put  me 


94  MISCELLANIES. 

down  at  Bagshot,  twenty-six  miles  from  London. 
It  was  dark  when  we  passed  Bagshot  heath,  and 
nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  when  we  entered  the 
village. 

September  9.  The  inn  to  which  I  was  carried 
was  not  what  is  called  the  first  inn  in  the  place, 
but  for  that  very  reason,  perhaps,  was  the  best,  or 
the  best  for  me.  Your  first  inns  are  very  well  for 
your  first  folks,  who  travel  in  their  own  carriages  ; 
but  for  unattended,  noiseless  mortals,  like  myself, 
they  are  not  so  comfortable,  in  this  country,  as 
those  of  the  second  class.  In  the  former,  we  are 
not  of  sufficient  consideration  to  demand  a  ready 
service  of  our  wants,  or  a  proper  deference  to  our 
wishes  ;  while  in  the  latter  we  are  as  good  as  the 
best  of  their  customers,  and  therefore  served  as 
well  as  the  best.  At  least,  I  have  found  it  so 
hitherto  ;  and  I  never  was  better  attended  in  any 
public  house,  than  I  was  in  this  little  inn  at  Bag- 
shot. 

September  10.  I  took  a  walk,  after  breakfast 
this  morning,  to  look  about  me.  Bagshot  is  a 
small  village,  but  a  very  neat  one.  It  is  entirely 
surrounded  by  extensive  heaths  ;  and,  excepting 
in  the  immediate  vicinity  of  the  town,  there  is 
scarcely  a  tree  to  be  seen  as  far  as  the  eye  can 
reach.  The  pretty  little  heath-flower,  with  which 
these  tracts  are  covered,  is  now  just  beginning  to 


JOURNAL.  95 

fade,  but  still  retains  much  of  its  beauty.  At  ten 
o'clock  the  Southampton  coach  passed  through  the 
village,  and  I  took  my  seat  in  it  for  Winchester, 
where  I  arrived  at  four  in  the  afternoon. 

This  city  is  very  ancient,  and  was  once  a  place 
of  great  importance  ;  so  much  so,  that  till  the 
reign  of  Henry  III.  it  was,  rather  than  London, 
the  capital  of  England.  Here  Egbert  was  crowned 
in  the  year  827,  and  Edward  the  Confessor,  in 
1042  ;  here  Ethel  wolf  and  his  son,  the  great  Al 
fred,  were  educated  ;  here  Henry  IV.  was  mar 
ried  to  Joan  of  Brittany,  and  Mary  to  Philip  of 
Spain  ;  and  here,  for  some  time  after  the  Conquest, 
the  mint  and  treasury  were  established,  and  the 
archives  of  the  kingdom  were  preserved.  The 
famous  Doomsday  Book  is,  from  this  circum 
stance,  also  called  the  Rotulus  Wintoniensis.  It 
is  no  longer  the  seat  of  royalty  ;  and,  in  point  of 
magnitude,  it  has  fallen  so  far  below  its  former 
rival  that  it  would,  if  joined  to  it,  hardly  make  a 
perceptible  addition  to  its  giant  size. 

Still,  it  is  a  place  of  much  interest  to  the  strang 
er,  and  retains  many  memorials  of  its  former  mag 
nificence.  The  principal  of  these  is  the  cathedral. 
After  dinner,  I  paid  it  a  visit.  It  is  a  massive, 
venerable  old  pile,  and  realized  all  my  expecta 
tions  of  gothic  grandeur.  It  is  built,  as  all  the 
ecclesiastical  structures  of  those  times  were  built, 


96  MISCELLANIES. 

in  the  form  of  a  cross.  From  the  centre,  or,  to 
speak  more  scientifically,  from  the  junction  of  the 
nave  and  transepts,  rises  the  tower  ;  in  form,  a 
square,  and  but  a  very  little  elevated  above  the 
body  of  the  building.  Its  appearance,  however, 
is  very  substantial  and  imposing  ;  and  it  is,  to 
gether  with  the  transepts,  the  most  ancient  portion 
of  the  structure  ;  these  parts  being  all  that  remain 
of  the  cathedral,  erected  by  Bishop  Walkelin,  be 
tween  the  years  1079  and  1093,  in  which  last  year 
it  was  finished.  By  the  way,  I  have  improved  so 
much,  since  I  first  entered,  a  raw  and  inexperi 
enced  American,  the  arched  door-way  of  Chester 
cathedral,  that  I  have  become  quite  an  adept,  and 
have  eight  or  ten  of  the  most  common  terms  of 
gothic  architecture  at  my  finger  ends.  Being 
able,  therefore,  to  call  things,  more  generally,  by 
their  right  names,  I  shall  go  on  to  say,  that  I  en 
tered  Winchester  cathedral  by  the  principal  door, 
which  is  always  at  the  west  end.  I  was  then  in 
the  nave,  or  great  western  aisle,  on  the  right  and 
left  of  which  ran  the  two  side  aisles  ;  the  separa 
tion  between  the  nave  and  these  lesser  aisles  being 
made  by  the  clustered  pillars  which  support  the 
roof. 

Under  the  fifth  arch  of  the  south  aisle,  is  the 
tomb  of  the  munificent  William  of  Wykeham, 
bishop  of  this  see,  under  whose  auspices  the  west 


JOURNAL.  97 

end  of  the  cathedral,  as  it  now  stands,  was  re- 
erected.  The  tomb  is  enclosed  by  a  small  chapel 
or  chantry  ;  and  on  it  reclines  the  marble  figure 
of  the  bishop  in  full  dress,  with  mitre,  crosier, 
ring,  cope,  tunic,  and  all  the  other  adornments  of  a 
dignitary  of  the  Roman  church.  The  face  is  well 
done,  and  is  evidently  a  likeness.  Bishops  Mor- 
ley  and  Hoadley,  with  others,  have  likewise  mon 
uments  in  this  part  of  the  cathedral.  Nearly 
opposite  Wykeham's  chapel,  on  the  north  side,  is 
a  most  curious  baptismal  font  of  black  marble,  and 
of  unsearchable  antiquity,  carved  with  rude  fig 
ures,  which  are  supposed  to  represent  a  popish 
legend  of  St.  Nicholas. 

The  nave  is  terminated  by  an  ornamented  par 
tition  of  stone,  called  the  screen  ;  through  which 
a  door  opens  into  the  choir,  or  part  appropriated 
to  public  worship.  Here  begins  the  east  end  of 
the  cathedral,  which  is  divided  from  the  west  by 
the  north  and  south  transepts  ;  and  thus  is  com 
pleted  the  great  cross.  The  altar  is  at  the  eastern 
extremity  of  the  choir,  and  the  space  around  it  is 
called  the  chancel.  In  the  choir  of  this  cathedral, 
placed  on  the  top  of  its  side  walls,  are  six  mortu 
ary  chests  containing  the  remains  of  many  of  the 
Saxon  sovereigns,  —  Kinegils,  Egbert,  Ethelwolf, 
Edred,  Canute,  Queen  Emma,  &c.  Under  the 
pavement  is  the  grave  of  William  Rufus,  the  last 

9 


98  MISCELLANIES. 

English  king  who  was  buried  here.  Near  the 
choir,  though  not  communicating  with  it,  are  sev 
eral  small  chapels,  one  of  which  is  dedicated  to 
the  Virgin  Mary  ;  and  others,  like  that  already 
described,  are  built  for  the  tombs  of  different  bish 
ops. 

I  have  now,  in  my  progress  through  Winches 
ter  cathedral,  given,  though  to  be  sure  in  a  con 
fused  way,  the  names  and  situations  of  the  princi 
pal  of  those  interior  parts,  which  are  common  to 
all  cathedrals.  These  are  the  nave,  with  its  side 
aisles ;  the  transepts ;  and  the  choir,  separated  from 
the  nave  by  its  screen,  and  including  the  chancel. 
The  chapel  of  the  virgin,  or  the  lady  chapel,  as  it 
is  called,  is  also,  I  believe,  a  universal  appendage, 
and  is  situated  immediately  behind  the  choir, 
forming  the  extreme  east  end  of  the  church. 
But  other  chapels  are  varied  at  will ;  and  are 
either  built  under  the  common  roof,  or  project 
from  the  grand  structure,  and  have  a  roof  of  their 
own.  The  position  of  the  tower  or  spire  is  also  a 
matter  depending  on  the  taste  of  the  architect ; 
and  sometimes  a  cathedral  has  but  one,  and,  again, 
another  will  have  two  or  more  rising  from  different 
parts  of  the  building. 

September  10.  Within  a  few  paces  of  my  inn, 
is  the  market  cross  ;  one  of  the  few  which  yet  re 
main  in  England.  It  is  a  light  little  structure, 


JOURNAL.  99 

consisting  of  gothic  niches  and  arches  elaborately 
carved,  rising  one  over  the  other,  and  tapering 
toward  the  summit,  which  is  crowned  by  a  small 
cross.  In  one  of  the  niches  is  an  image  of  a 
saint. 

After  breakfast,  I  walked  to  Winchester  school 
or  college ;  another  monument  of  Wykeham's 
munificence.  It  was  intended,  by  its  founder,  as 
a  preparatory  seminary  for  New  College,  Oxford, 
and  supports  seventy  scholars,  beside  the  masters. 
These  are  on  the  foundation.  There  are  many 
others  educated  here,  but  at  their  own  expense, 
who  are  called  gentlemen  commoners.  The  li 
brary  is  valuable,  though  not  large.  On  a  desk 
i  here  lay  a  large  folio  of  vellum,  in  which  were 
handsomely  entered  the  names  of  every  donor. 
The  chapel  is  beautiful.  The  cloisters,  or  cov 
ered  walks,  are  in  perfect  preservation,  and  their 
walls  are  lined  with  the  monumental  tablets  of 
those  members  of  the  institution  wrho  lie  buried 
beneath  their  pavement.  The  students  wear  a 
gown  of  black  cloth  over  their  other  dress,  of  the 
same  cut  and  fashion,  no  doubt,  as  was  worn  in 
the  days  of  the  good  William  of  Wykeham  ;  and 
it  is  very  becoming.  In  the  refectory,  a  few  of 
the  lads,  who  had  not  finished  their  breakfast, 
were  yet  lingering  ;  and  I  observed  that  they  ate, 
not  off  of  plates,  but  square,  flat  bits  of  oaken 


100  MISCELLANIES. 

board,  called  trenchers  ;  to  keep  up  the  old  cus 
toms,  as  my  guide  said.  They  have  another  cus 
tom,  which,  though  not  so  old,  is  much  prettier, 
that  of  joining  their  young  voices  together,  just 
before  they  go  home  for  the  vacation,  to  sing  the 
sweet  song  of  Dulce  Domum.  Dulce  Domuni  I 
He  must  have  had  music  in  his  soul,  who  first  sug 
gested  this  touching  observance.  Sweet  Home  ? 
O  !  there  is  melody  and  magic  in  the  very  sound, 
It  was  yet  early  when  I  left  the  college  ;  and, 
as  it  was  Sunday,  I  went  directly  to  the  cathedral, 
that  I  might  hear  the  morning  service.  It  had 
just  commenced  ;  and  I  stood  some  minutes  in 
the  nave,  listening  to  the  solemn  chant  which  is 
sued  from  the  choir,  and  filled  the  lofty  arches  of 
the  cathedral  with  its  swelling  harmony.  As  a 
stranger,  I  was  led  by  the  sexton  to  a  seat  of 
honor,  one  of  the  prebendary's  stalls,  richly  carved, 
and  well  accommodated  with  velvet  cushions.  The 
whole  service  is  sung.  Even  the  longer  prayers 
were  read  by  the  officiating  clergyman  in  a  meas 
ured  tone  ;  and  the  responses  are  chanted  by  the 
choristers,  an  order  which  is  maintained  in  every 
cathedral.  They  are  dressed  in  white  robes,  and 
ranged  on  each  side  of  the  choir.  The  treble 
parts  are  sustained  by  boys.  I  was  delighted  with 
their  music,  and  particularly  with  the  voices  of  the 
younger  choristers,  one  of  whom  sung  like  an  an- 


JOURNAL.  101 

gel.  The  chant  of  the  response  to  the  command 
ments,  in  the  communion  service,  —  "  Lord,  have 
mercy  upon  us,  and  incline  our  hearts  to  keep  this 
law,"  was  highly  affecting  and  expressive.  The 
sermon,  however,  was  delivered  in  so  low  a  key 
that  I  could  catch  but  very  little  of  it ;  and  what 
I  heard  was  not  calculated  to  make  me  deplore 
the  loss  of  the  rest. 

I  was  dissatisfied  with  my  inn,  and  made  up 
my  mind  to  stay  here  no  longer,  but  move  on  to 
Salisbury.  There  was  no  coach  between  these 
two  places ;  which,  considering  their  size  and  im 
portance,  I  thought  very  strange  ;  but  so  it  was, 
and  I  must  either  take  a  post-chaise,  or  proceed 
by  the  route  of  Southampton.  But  Salisbury  has 
a  cathedral,  and  Southampton  has  not,  and  this 
was  quite  enough  to  determine  me  ;  and  at  noon 
I  was  on  the  road.  We  passed  through  the  west 
gate  in  leaving  Winchester  ;  the  only  one  of  its 
ancient  gates  remaining.  From  the  north  side  of 
it  extends  a  considerable  fragment  of  the  old  city 
wall,  built  of  flint  stones,  which  abound  in  the 
chalky  soil  of  this  part  of  the  country.  At  Stock- 
bridge  we  changed  horses,  and  at  four  in  the  after 
noon,  arrived  at  Salisbury. 

It  is  curious  to  mark  how  different  my  recep 
tion  is  at  the  inns,  now  that  I  travel  in  a  post- 
chaise,  from  that  which  I  obtained  as  a  passenger 
9* 


102  MISCELLANIES. 

in  the  stage-coach.  Then,  I  was  treated  with 
civility,  to  be  sure  ;  a  servant  came  to  open  the 
door,  and  offer  his  arm  to  assist  me  in  getting  out, 
and  if  I  ordered  my  baggage  to  be  taken  in,  it  was 
done  ;  but  after  that  I  was  left  pretty  much  to 
myself,  and  went  away  with  as  little  observance 
as  attended  my  coming.  But  now,  the  chaise  no 
sooner  stops  before  an  inn  door,  than,  instead  of 
one  servant,  out  run  two  or  three,  and  perhaps 
even  the  landlady  herself  deigns  to  make  her  ap 
pearance  ;  the  steps  are  unfolded  with  as  much 
rattling  as  possible  ;  an  elbow  is  presented  on  each 
side,  and  I  am  helped  down  with  as  much  care 
and  tenderness  as  if  I  had  the  gout  or  rheuma 
tism  ;  my  trunks  are  shouldered,  and  I  am  asked 
whether  they  shall  be  carried  in  ;  my  looks  and 
motions  are  watched,  and  my  least  word  attended 
to  ;  the  bell  is  an,swrered  in  a  trice  ;  the  table  is 
laid  and  the  dishes  are  brought  in  with  as  much 
formality  as  at  a  city  feast ;  and  when  I  leave  the 
house,  (provided  I  leave  it  in  a  post-chaise,)  an 
other  company  of  servants  are  collected  to  bestow 
the  baggage,  and  to  open  the  door  ;  while  the 
landlord,  who  hardly  ever  shows  his  face  to  the 
stage-coach  passenger,  stands  without,  "  a  booing 
and  booing,"  as  if  he  never  meant  to  assume  an 
erect  posture  again. 

All  this  is  very  well,  arid  very  flattering  to  one's 


JOURNAL.  103 

self-importance  ;  but  there  are  reasons  for  it,  of 
course  ;  and  they  are  not  so  pleasant.  In  the  first 
place,  the  owners  of  the  post-chaises  are  the  inn 
keepers,  and  they  make  great  profits  by  them ; 
for  they  charge  eighteen  pence  per  mile  for  their 
use  ;  and  when  to  this  you  add  the  tolls  and  the 
half-crown  which  is  to  be  given  as  the  customary 
fee  to  the  post-boy,  at  the  end  of  every  eight  or 
nine  miles,  travelling  in  this  way  becomes  a  seri 
ous  thing  to  a  moderate  income.  Then,  in  the 
second  place,  as  you  have  already  paid  so  much, 
you  are  thought  to  be  able  to  pay  more,  and  there 
fore  are  expected  to  call  for  wine,  which,  to  an  in 
valid,  who  must  not  drink  it,  or  to  one  who  does  not 
want  or  cannot  afford  it,  is  very  vexatious  ;  and 
the  servants  look  for  a  better  fee  than  they  do 
from  a  traveller  by  the  stage  ;  and  this  is  another 
reason  for  their  reverence  and  activity.  These 
considerations  will  not  apply  to  those  who  have 
no  need  to  be  very  strict  economists,  and  who  can 
see  a  pound  note  disappear  at  every  change  of 
horses  with  perfect  indifference.  To  such  trav 
ellers,  English  posting  must  be  the  pleasantest 
way  of  making  a  journey  which  could  be  possibly 
found  or  mentioned.  If  two  or  three  persons  take 
a  chaise,  also,  the  division  of  expense  will  render 
it  light  to  each  individual ;  as  the  charge  is  not 
more  for  three  than  it  is  for  one.  But  we  will 


104  MISCELLANIES. 

leave  this  matter,  for  we  are  in  Salisbury,  and 
must  go  and  see  the  cathedral. 

The  cathedral  is  remarkable  for  its  lofty  and 
elegant  spire,  its  ornamental  buttresses,  and  by  its 
being  of  a  more  uniform  architecture  than  any 
other  ancient  cathedral  in  England.  The  win 
dows,  pillars,  arches  and  decorations,  all  corre 
spond  with  each  other,  and  offer  none  of  that  dis 
crepancy  of  style,  and  incongruity  of  ornament, 
which  are  so  obvious  in  the  other  remaining  build 
ings  of  this  kind.  The  reason  of  this  is  that  the 
whole  body  of  the  edifice  stands  now  as  it  wa^ 
first  erected  ;  with  the  exception  of  the  spire, 
which  was  added  about  a  century  after ;  but 
which,  while  it  is  a  most  exquisite  structure  in  it 
self,  is  by  no  means  ill  adapted  to  the  rest  of  the 
cathedral.  Before  the  present  see  of  Salisbury, 
or  New  Sarum,  was  settled  here,  it  had  been  suc 
cessively  removed  from  Sherborn  and  Wilson  to 
Old  Sarum,  where  Hermann,  the  eleventh  bishop, 
began  a  cathedral,  and  Osmund,  his  successor, 
finished  it,  toward  the  close  of  the  eleventh  cen 
tury.  On  account  of  the  bitter  and  incessant 
quarrels  between  the  clergy  and  the  castellans,  or 
soldiers  of  the  castle,  Bishop  Richard  Poore,  or 
Pauper,  made  the  final  remove  in  the  beginning 
of  the  thirteenth  century,  and  in  the  year  1220,  laid 
the  foundation  of  the  present  church.  This  proved 


JOURNAL.  105 

the  death-blow  to  the  city  of  Old  Sarum,  for  it 
gradually  declined,  and  is  now  nothing  but  a  heap 
of  rubbish.  Poore  was  translated  to  Durham,  and 
the  cathedral  was  not  finished  till  the  year  1258, 
when  it  was  dedicated  by  ^Egidius  de  Bridport 
to  the  Virgin  Mary,  a  noble  company  being  pre 
sent,  among  whom  was  king  Henry  III.  himself. 
Though  so  old,  this  church  is  not  marked  by 
any  appearance  of  decay.  It  looks  beautifully 
fresh  and  sound ;  and  its  spire  springs  up  to 
heaven  with  a  grace,  lightness  and  symmetry, 
which  are  quite  enchanting.  Beside  the  princi 
pal  transept  there  is  another  smaller  one  farther 
toward  the  east,  making  a  double  cross  of  the 
structure.  The  interior  of  this  church  does  not  at 
all  disappoint  the  expectations  excited  by  its  ex 
ternal  appearance.  The  nave  is  grand  and  sim 
ple,  and  the  pillars  are  unusually  delicate.  The 
two  painted  windows  of  the  choir,  one  above  the 
other,  give  a  remarkably  rich  effect  to  that  por 
tion  of  the  church.  One  of  these  represents  the 
resurrection,  the  other  the  elevation  of  the  brazen 
serpent  in  the  wilderness.  Both  are  modern,  and 
the  latter  is  much  admired.  Among  the  monu 
ments  in  various  parts  of  the  building,  are  those 
of  Bishop  Poore,  the  founder  ;  Bishop  Davenant, 
who  was  sent  by  James  I.  to  the  synod  of  Dort ; 
Bishop  Ward,  the  mathematician  ;  and  a 


106  MISCELLANIES. 

some  one  by  Bacon,  to  the  memory  of  Harris,  the 
author  of  "Hermes,"  &c.,  who  was  a  native  of 
Salisbury..  The  extreme  length  of  this  cathedral 
is  four  hundred  and  seventy-three  feet.  It  is  not 
so  long  as  Winchester  cathedral,  which  is  five 
hundred  and  fifty-four  feet,  and  the  longest  in  the 
kingdom.  The  spire,  however,  of  Salisbury  is 
four  hundred  feet  high,  being  considerably  higher 
than  St.  Paul's,  London,  which  is  about  three 
hundred  and  forty  feet. 

September  1 1 .  Stonehenge  lies  about  eight  miles 
from  Salisbury,  and  it  would  have  been  a  pity  and 
a  shame  if  I  had  left  Salisbury  without,  seeing  so 
remarkable  an  object.  So,  this  morning,  I  jumped 
into  a  post-chaise  for  the  purpose.  Our  course 
was  to  the  north-west,  and  soon  brought  us  on  to 
a  wide,  chalky,  desert  tract,  called  Salisbury  Plain. 
The  day  was  hot,  and  the  atmosphere  clear  j  and 
from  one  of  the  undulating  eminences  which  alone 
diversify  this  barren  waste,  I  could  plainly  distin 
guish,  at  the  distance  of  five  miles,  what  I  knew 
to  be  Stonehenge.  The  appearance  was  like  a 
number  of  small,  black  dots,  or  like  a  flock  of 
sheep,  when  they  are  at  the  distance  of  half  a  mile, 
or  so,  from  the  spectator.  I  then  lost  sight  of  it ; 
but  from  another  rising  in  the  ground,  which  the 
post-boy  said  was  three  miles  from  it,  I  caught  it 
again.  It  was  now  so  distinct  that  I  could  plainly 


JOURNAL.  107 

discern  the  form  and  position  of  the  several  stones 
which  compose  it ;  and  yet  I  must  acknowledge 
a  secret  feeling  of  disappointment ;  but  it  was  all 
my  own  fault ;  I  either  had  forgotten,  or  did  not 
correctly  know,  their  true  size,  and  foolishly  ex 
pected,  I  believe,  to  find  each  particular  stone 
as  tall  as  a  church  tower.  I  soon  reasoned  my 
self,  however,  into  a  proper  mood,  and  disappoint 
ment  then  gave  place  to  continually  increasing 
admiration.  For  the  remainder  of  the  three  miles 
we  kept  it  in  full  view  —  still  growing  and  grow 
ing,  as  we  gained  upon  it ;  till,  at  last,  we  quitted 
the  beaten  road,  and,  driving  over  the  short  dry 
turf,  stopped  immediately  beneath  it. 

So  many  of  the  stones  have  fallen  that  the  whole 
seems  at  first  sight  to  be  a  confused  assemblage 
of  enormous  masses  of  rock  ;  but  after  a  while 
you  discover  three  concentric  circles  of  upright 
stones,  and  in  the  centre  a  single  one,  lying  em 
bedded  in  the  ground,  which  is  called  the  altar. 
The  most  remarkable  of  these  circles  is  the  inte 
rior  one,  composed  of  huge  blocks,  about  twenty 
feet  high,  seven  feet  wide,  and  three  feet  thick, 
every  two  of  which  formerly  supported  a  third  of 
nearly  the  same  size,  which  has  been  called  the 
impost,  and  which  is  rudely  fastened  to  its  two 
supporting  pillars  by  a  ball  and  socket-joint.  The 
three  together  have  received  the  appellation  of 


108  MISCELLANIES. 

trilithon.  In  this  circle  there  are  only  two  of  these 
trilithons  remaining  entire.  The  second  circle  is 
composed  of  stones  which  are  no  more  than  seven 
feet  high,  and  are  separate  pillars.  But  in  the 
outer  circle  they  rise  to  the  height  of  fourteen  feet, 
and  are  again  formed  into  trilithons,  several  of 
which  are  standing  and  perfect. 

There  have  been  many  theories  stated  with  re 
spect  to  the  purpose  and  origin  of  this  monument, 
a  number  of  which  are  collected  together,  and 
printed  at  Salisbury,  in  a  small  pamphlet.  The 
two  most  prevalent  are,  the  one  that  it  is  a  military 
trophy  of  the  ancient  Britons,  and  the  other  that 
it  is  a  Druidical  temple.  But  the  truth  is,  that 
there  is  no  authentic  history  relating  to  it ;  and  it 
is  next  to  an  impossibility  that  anything  certain 
should  ever  be  ascertained  of  its  design  or  its  erec 
tion.  But  there  it  stands,  the  gloomy  monarch  of 
this  lonely  plain  ;  the  hoary  relic  of  an  age  that 
has  no  chronicle  ;  the  mighty  work  of  nameless 
men  ;  the  scene  and  the  witness  of  events  that 
have  long  since  gone  down  to  oblivion  ;  — there 
it  stands,  and  there  it  has  stood,  while  centuries  of 
suns  have  poured  their  fiercest  beams  upon  it,  and 
winter  after  winter  has  brought  the  driving  snow, 
and  the  pelting  rain,  and  the  sweeping  wind,  to 
help  time  on  to  its  destruction  ;  and  there  it  will 
stand,  a  wonder  and  a  monument,  when  our  his 
tories,  like  its  own,  are  forgotten. 


JOURNAL.  109 

At  the  distance  of  fifty  or  sixty  yards  to  the 
north-east  of  the  main  structure,  and  leaning  to 
wards  it,  is  a  large,  single  stone,  sixteen  feet  high, 
called  the  Friar's  Heel.  This  name  is  connected 
with  the  popular  and  traditional  account  of  the 
erection  of  Stonehenge  ;  not  the  most  learned  or 
probable,  perhaps,  but  certainly  the  most  amusing. 
It  seems,  according  to  this  account,  that  the  stones 
which  now  compose  Stonehenge  were  once  the 
property  of  an  old  woman  in  Ireland,  and  grew 
in  her  back  yard.  The  famous  necromancer, 
Merlin,  having  set  his  heart  on  possessing  them, 
mentioned  the  affair  to  the  devil,  who  promised 
to  obtain  them  for  him.  For  this  purpose,  assum 
ing  —  which  he  did  without  the  least  difficulty —  the 
appearance  of  a  gentleman,  he  visited  the  old  wo 
man,  and  pouring  a  bag  of  money  on  her  table, 
told  her  that  he  would  give  her  as  many  of  the 
pieces  for  the  stones  in  her  ground,  as  she  could 
reckon  while  he  was  taking  them  away.  Think 
ing  it  impossible  for  one  person  to  manage  them 
in  almost  any  given  time,  she  closed  with  his  pro 
posal  immediately,  and  began  forthwith  to  count 
the  money  ;  but  she  had  no  sooner  laid  her  hand 
on  the  first  coin,  than  the  old  one  cried  out, 
"  Hold  !  for  your  stones  are  gone  !  "  The  old 
woman  ran  to  the  window,  and  looking  out  into 
her  back  yard,  found  that  it  was  really  so  —  her 

10 


110  MISCELLANIES. 

stones  were  gone.  The  arch  enemy  had,  in  the 
twinkling  of  an  eye,  taken  them  all  down,  tied 
them  together,  and  was  now  flying  away  with 
them. 

As  he  was  crossing  the  river  Avon,  at  Bulford, 
the  string  which  bound  the  stones  became  loose, 
and  one  of  them  dropped  into  the  stream,  where 
it  still  may  be  seen  ;  with  the  rest,  however,  he 
arrived  safe  on  Salisbury  Plain,  where,  in  obedi 
ence  to  Merlin's  instructions,  he  began  to  set  them 
up  again.  The  work,  in  the  hands  of  such  a 
builder,  went  on  swimmingly,  and  the  devil  was 
so  well  pleased  with  it,  that  as  he  was  placing  the 
last  stone,  he  declared,  with  an  intention,  no 
doubt,  of  teazing  the  restless  curiosity  of  mankind, 
that  no  one  should  ever  know  where  the  pile  came 
from,  or  how  it  came  there.  In  this  part  of  the 
business  he  was  disappointed  ;  for  a  friar,  who 
had  been  concealed  about  the  work,  loudly  replied, 
"  That  is  more  than  thou  canst  tell,  Old  Nick." 
This  put  the  devil  in  such  a  rage,  that  pulling  up 
the  nearest  stone  by  the  roots,  he  threw  it  at  the 
friar,  with  the  design  of  crushing  him  ;  but  the 
friar  was  too  nimble  for  him  ;  the  stone  only 
struck  his  heel,  and  thus  he  gave  it  its  present 
name,  and  escaped  to  let  the  world  know  who  was 
the  architect  of  Stonehenge. 

They  who  still  persist  in  giving  no  credit  to  the 


JOURNAL.  Ill 

friar's  information,  have  been  exceedingly  puzzled 
in  endeavoring  to  account  for  the  elevation  of  such 
huge  columns,  in  an  age  which  must  have  been  so 
rude  and  ignorant.  The  solution  given  by  Row 
land,  has  the  merit  of  ingenuity,  although  it  can 
not  be  determined  that  the  method  suggested  by 
him  was  that  employed  by  the  real  builders.  I 
give  it  in  his  own  words :  "  The  powers  of  the 
lever,  and  of  the  inclined  plane,  being  some  of  the 
first  things  understood  by  mankind,  in  the  use  of 
building,  it  may  be  well  conceived  that  our  first 
ancestors  made  use  of  them  ;  and  we  may  imagine 
that,  in  order  to  erect  such  a  prodigious  monu 
ment  as  Stonehenge,  they  chose,  where  they  found, 
or  made,  where  such  were  not  fit  to  their  hands, 
small  agg-eres  or  mounts  of  firm  and  solid  earth 
for  an  inclined  plane,  flatted  and  levelled  at  top ; 
up  the  sloping  sides  of  which,  with  great  wooden 
levers  upon  fixed  fulciments,  and  with  balances  at 
the  end  of  them,  to  receive  into  them  proportional 
weights  and  counterpoises,  and  with  hands  enough 
to  guide  and  manage  the  engines,  they  that  way, 
by  little  and  little,  heaved  and  rolled  up  those 
stones  they  intended  to  erect  on  the  top  of  the 
hillock  ;  where,  laying  them  along,  they  dug  holes 
in  the  earth  at  the  end  of  every  stone  intended  for 
column  or  supporter,  the  depth  of  which  holes 
was  equal  to  the  length  of  the  stones,  and  then, 


112  MISCELLANIES. 

which  was  easily  done,  let  slip  the  stones  into 
these  holes,  straight  on  end  ;  which  stones  so  sunk 
and  well  closed  about  with  earth,  and  the  tops  of 
them  level  with  the  top  of  the  mount  on  which 
the  other  flat  stones  lay,  it  was  only  placing  those 
incumbent  flat  stones  upon  the  tops  of  the  sup 
porters,  duly  bound  and  fastened,  and  taking  away 
the  earth  from  between  them  almost  to  the  bottom 
of  the  supporters,  and  there  then  appeared  what 
we  now  call  Stonehenge." 

Concerning  the  origin  and  derivation  of  the 
name  Stonehenge,  there  is  as  much  diversity  of 
opinion  as  upon  any  other  circumstance  relating 
to  it.  Tnigo  Jones  says,  "  This  antiquity,  because 
the  architraves  are  set  upon  the  heads  of  the  up 
right  stones,  and  hang,  as  it  were,  in  the  air,  is 
generally  known  by  the  name  of  Stone-Henge" 
"The  true  Saxon  name,"  says  Gibson,  in  Cam- 
den's  Britannia, /'seems  to  be  Stonhengist,  from 
the  memorable  slaughter  which  Hengist,  the  Sax 
on,  here  made  of  the  Britons.  If  this  etymology 
may  be  allowed,  that  which  received  derivation 
from  the  hanging  of  stones,  may  be  as  far  from 
the  truth  as  that  of  the  vulgar  Stone-edge,  from 
stones  set  on  edge."  An  anonymous  writer,  about 
the  year  1660,  who  calls  his  piece,  "  A  Fool's  Bolt 
soon  shot  at  Stonage,"  appears  to  me  to  be  gravely 
quizzing  the  antiquaries  and  etymologists ;  if  he 


JOURNAL.  113 

is  not,  he  is  himself  the  most  ridiculous  of  the 
whole  fraternity.  He  pretends  to  have  discovered 
everything  concerning  this  pile,  the  when,  the 
how,  the  why,  and  the  wherefore,  and  divides  his 
article  into  twelve  particulars,  the  second  of  which 
relates  to  the  contested  derivation.  Hear  it :  "  2. 
My  second  particular  is  that  a  bloody  battle  was 
fought  near  Stonage.  For  the  very  name,  Ston- 
age,  signifies  Stone-battle;  the  last  syllable,  age, 
coming  from  the  Greek  u/wy,  a  furious  battle,  &c. ; 
so  that  all  that  have  built  their  opinion  of  this 
monument  on  any  other  foundation  than  a  bloody 
battle,  have  built  Stonages  in  the  air."  But  enough 
of  this. 

After  having  viewed  the  monument  itself,  the 
attention  is  attracted  by  the  numerous  barrows, 
or  sepulchral  mounds,  by  which  it  is  surrounded. 
Several  of  these  have  been  opened,  and  have  been 
found  to  contain  cinerary  urns,  metal  and  glass 
beads,  weapons  of  brass  and  iron,  cups,  trinkets, 
&c.  As  companions  to  Stonehenge,  these  bar 
rows  add  much  to  the  effect  of  the  scene,  and 
heighten  the  feelings  of  contemplative  solemnity 
which  are  awakened  in  the  bosom  of  the  beholder. 
There  is  nothing  modern  near  the  place  for  miles : 
here  is  the  vast  and  venerable  monument,  and 
scattered  here  and  there  about  it  are  the  primitive 
graves  of  men,  who  were  doubtless  familiar  with 

10* 


114  MISCELLANIES. 

its  mysteries,  but  whose   knowledge  sleeps  with 
them,  as  soundly  as  they  do. 

In  returning  to  Salisbury,  I  took  a  different  road 
from  that  which  brought  me  to  Stonehenge,  and 
at  the  end  of  two  miles  came  to  the  village  of 
Amesbury.  While  the  postilion  stopped  here  to 
refresh  himself  and  his  horses,  I  walked  out,  and 
passing  a  small,  but  old  and  picturesque  church, 
entered  the  grounds  of  Amesbury  house,  a  man 
sion  belonging  to  Lord  D.  The  building  was 
designed  by  Inigo  Jones,  and  is  a  handsome-look 
ing  house,  but  fast  going  to  decay ;  as  the  present 
possessor  has  not  inhabited  it  for  years.  The 
walls  are  defaced,  the  windows  boarded  up,  and 
the  glass  broken.  The  grounds  are  as  desolate 
as  the  dwelling  ;  the  banks  of  the  Avon,  which 
winds  through  them,  are  overgrown  with  long 
grass  and  bushes,  and  its  stream  is  choked  with 
mud  and  reeds  ;  a  bridge,  with  a  summer-house 
in  the  Chinese  fashion  built  upon  it,  is  made  almost 
impassable  by  its  own  ruins  ;  the  park  is  strown 
with  dead  leaves  and  withered  branches  ;  the  dial- 
stone  is  overturned  ;  and  there  is  not  even 

"  One  rose  of  the  wilderness  left  on  its  stalk, 
To  mark  where  a  garden  had  been." 

Feelings  more  deeply  sad  and  sorrowful  are,  per 
haps,  inspired  by  scenes  like  this,  than  by  the  re- 


JOURNAL.  115 

mains  of  a  more  distant  age ;  decay  is  premature, 
and  ruin  has  come  before  its  time  ;  the  traces  of 
desolation  are  marked  upon  familiar  things,  and 
the  effects  of  many  years  have  overtaken  the  work 
manship  of  yesterday. 

On  returning  to  the  inn,  I  found  the  chaise  wait 
ing  for  me.  The  sun  was  now  very  powerful ; 
and  its  rays,  reflected  from  the  chalky  road,  were 
rendered  doubly  burning.  Neither  was  there  any 
thing  in  the  scenery  to  refresh  the  spirits,  and  cool 
the  blood.  The  harvest  was  over,  and  the  fields 
were  all  dry  stubble  ;  not  a  cottage  was  to  be 
seen,  nor  any  living  thing,  excepting  a  shepherd 
whom  we  met,  with  his  coat  stripped  off  and 
thrown  over  his  shoulder,  covered  with  dust  and 
sweat,  and  driving  a  flock  of  panting  sheep  over 
the  heated  downs. 

Within  two  miles  of  Salisbury,  and  at  a  short 
distance  from  the  road,  are  the  ruins  of  Old  Sa- 
rum.  The  only  dwelling  near  it  is  a  humble  pot 
house,  at  which  we  stopped.  A  path  through  its 
little  garden  leads  out  upon  the  ruins.  They  are 
very  inconsiderable  —  an  irregular  mound  of  earth, 
enclosing  a  space  of  two  thousand  feet  in  diame 
ter,  and  a  yard  or  two  of  crumbling  stone  wall ; 
and  yet  this  place  sends  two  members  to  parlia 
ment  ;  that  is,  the  proprietor  of  the  land  sends 
them.  Home  Tooke  was  once  returned  from 


116  MISCELLANIES. 

this  thoroughly  rotten  borough.  Two  lads  were 
ploughing  immediately  under  the  ramparts.  In 
performing  this  labor,  ancient  coins  are  often 
picked  up  about  the  ruins ;  and  the  landlady 
showed  me  a  small  box  full  of  them,  a  few  of 
which  I  purchased. 

September  12.  I  left  Salisbury  in  a  post-chaise, 
and  continued  to  gaze  on  the  cathedral  spire  till 
it  was  out  of  sight ;  dined  at  Blandford,  and  ar 
rived  in  the  afternoon  at  Dorchester,  the  county 
town  of  Dorsetshire.  This  place  presents  a  fine 
view  on  the  approach  to  it,  but  contains  nothing 
to  employ  curiosity. 

September.  13.  The  stage-coach  came  by  at 
noon,  and  its  inside  was  full.  This  was  a  disap 
pointment  ;  but  the  day  was  fine,  and  I  deter 
mined  to  try  the  outside  ;  so  I  placed  myself  011 
the  seat  which  is  raised  over  the  hind  wheels,  and 
we  soon  left  Dorchester  in  the  distance.  I  found 
my  situation  a  very  pleasant  one,  as  it  commanded 
views  of  the  country  from  which  any  inside  seat 
would  have  entirely  excluded  me,  and  gave  me 
also  the  full  refreshment  of  the  passing  breeze.  I 
observed,  as  I  likewise  had  in  my  yesterday's 
drive,  many  remains  of  Roman  encampments,  on 
both  sides  of  the  road.  Their  appearance  is  very 
much  like  that  of  our  American  fortifications  of 
the  revolutionary  war,  which  we  so  often  see 


JOURNAL.  117 

crowning  the  green  summit  of  a  hill.  Stopping 
only  to  change  horses,  we  rode  on  through  Brid- 
port,  Charmouth,  Axminster,  Honiton,  and,  a  lit 
tle  after  dark,  entered  Exeter,  the  county  town  of 
Devonshire,  fifty-two  miles  from  Dorchester,  and 
one  hundred  and  seventy-two  from  London.  And 
here  I  shall  remain  a  few  weeks,  in  order  to  make 
the  proper  inquiries  before  I  fix  upon  a  place  for 
my  winter's  residence. 

September  14.  I  slept,  last  night,  at  the  New 
London  Inn,  and  took  lodgings,  this  morning,  in 
Southernhay  Place,  one  of  the  handsomest  and 
most  pleasant  parts  of  the  city.  For  a  neatly-fur 
nished  parlor  and  a  bed-room,  together  with  the 
use  of  a  servant,  &c.,  I  pay  a  guinea  and  a  half 
per  week.  My  meals  are  sent  me  from  a  neigh 
boring  cook-shop.  This  method  of  separating 
bed  and  board,  though  very  uncommon  in  our  own 
country,  is  by  far  the  most  customary  in  this.  In 
all  large  towns,  the  traveller  will  see  notices  of 
"apartments  to  be  let,"  or  "lodgings,"  in  the 
windows  of  those  houses  in  which  he  can  be  ac 
commodated  ;  and  the  price  for  these  is  regulated 
according  to  their  situation,  furniture,  &c.  An 
additional  charge  is  made  for  the  use  of  bed  and 
table  linen,  and  servants,  as  families  often  take 
their  own  with  them.  You  also  pay  separately 
for  coal  and  candles.  Then  you  are  either  sup- 


118  MISCELLANIES. 

plied  with  your  meals  from  a  cook-shop,  or  you 
buy  your  own  tea,  sugar,  bread,  beef,  mutton,  &c., 
like  a  regular  housekeeper,  and  your  landlady  will 
cook  for  you.  In  this  way  you  certainly  have 
your  eating  hours,  as  well  as  the  quantity  and 
kind  of  your  food  very  much  at  your  own  com 
mand  ;  but,  for  myself,  I  so  much  dislike  the 
trouble  of  saying,  from  day  to  day,  what  I  shall 
eat  and  what  I  shall  drink,  and  what  shall  be 
roasted,  and  what  shall  be  boiled,  that  I  prefer 
living  in  a  boarding-house,  where  that  trouble  is 
taken  off  my  hands.  I  think  so,  at  least,  from  the 
experience  of  one  day ;  but  use  may  reconcile  me 
to  the  labor  of  providing  for  myself. 

I  have  been  to  see  the  cathedral,  and  it  is  a  very 
fine  one.  Its  transepts  are  formed  by  two  grand 
square  towers,  which  rise  to  the  height  of  one  hun 
dred  and  forty  feet,  and  are  the  oldest  parts  of 
the  building,  having  been  erected,  as  is  supposed, 
by  William  Warlewert,  the  third  bishop  of  Exe 
ter,  between  the  years  1112  and  1128.  The  ma 
terial  is  a  gray  stone,  darkened  by  age  ;  and  the 
effect  of  the  whole  structure  is  solemn  and  impos 
ing.  Its  west  front  is  a  gorgeous  specimen  of 
ancient  ornament,  consisting  of  a  facade  of  sculp 
tured  niches,  rising  above  each  other  in  three 
rows,  and  filled  with  statues  of  kings,  saints,  bish 
ops  and  angels.  Beside  the  chapel  of  the  virgin, 


JOURNAL.  119 

there  are  a  great  many  others,  erected  by  different 
bishops  of  this  see.  There  are  also  several  inter 
esting  monuments  in  the  cathedral,  both  ancient 
and  modern ;  the  most  beautiful  of  the  latter  of 
which  is  one  to  the  memory  of  General  Simeol, 
executed  by  Flaxman,  and  put  up  in  1815. 

September  15.  At  the  end  of  Castle  street,  in 
the  northern  part  of  the  city,  is  all  that  remains  of 
Rougemont  castle,  once  the  residence  of  the  West- 
Saxon  kings,  and  afterwards  of  the  dukes  of  Ex 
eter.  The  gateway  alone  is  standing,  exceed 
ingly  simple  in  its  architecture,  but  forming,  with 
the  assistance  of  rich  bunches  of  ivy,  a  very  pic 
turesque  ruin.  It  is  enclosed,  together  with  a 
large  portion  of  the  old  city  wall,  in  the  grounds 
of  a  gentleman  of  this  city.  Shakspeare  repre 
sents  Richard  III.  as  having  been  deceived  by  the 
resemblance  of  the  name  of  this  castle  to  that  of 
his  dreaded  enemy.  The  king  says  : 

When  I  was  last  at  Exeter, 

The  mayor,  in  curtesie,  showed  me  the  castle, 
And  call'd  it  Rougemont,  at  which  name  I  started, 
Because  a  bard  of  Ireland  told  me  once 
I  should  not  live  long  after  I  saw  Richmond. 

In  passing  through  High  street,  the  principal 
street  of  this  town,  I  was  disagreeably  incom 
moded  by  the  crowds  through  which  I  was  obliged 
to  elbow  and  force  my  way.  It  was  one  of  the 


120  MISCELLANIES. 

market  days  ;  and,  as  there  is  no  regular  market 
place,  excepting  for  fish,  in  all  Exeter,  the  country 
people  and  hucksters  had  planted,  as  usual,  them 
selves  and  their  commodities  along  the  side  of  the 
street ;  and  here,  in  by  far  the  most  public  and 
frequented  part  of  a  city  containing  twenty  thou 
sand  inhabitants,  butchers  and  vegetable  sellers, 
fruit  women,  earthern-ware  pedlers,  servant-maids, 
servant-men,  and  purchasers  of  all  descriptions, 
were  buying  and  selling,  pushing  and  squeezing, 
and  compelling  the  uninterested  passenger  either 
to  quit  one  of  the  side-walks  altogether,  or  to  make 
his  way  through  them  as  well  as  he  could.  This 
is  certainly  a  grievous  nuisance,  and  some  efforts 
have  been  made  to  remove  it,  but  without  success  ; 
one  party  of  the  towns-people  wanting  the  market 
place  in  their  quarter  of  the  city,  and  another  insist 
ing  that  it  should  be  built  in  theirs,  while  a  third 
is  interested  in  opposing  all  change  in  the  present 
system  ;  and  thus  High  street  continues,  and  will 
probably  long  continue,  to  be  blockaded,  on  every 
Tuesday  and  Friday  in  every  week  in  the  year. 
These  are  the  established  market  days  ;  for  the 
rest  of  the  week,  the  street  is  clear. 

EXETER,  England,  September  22,  1820. 

To  Miss  E C . 

It  did  exceedinglie  please  me,  my  rite  worthie 
and  verie  deare  frende,  to  behold,  (whenne  I  came 


JOURNAL.  121 

ynto  the  grete  citie  of  London,)  an  epistole  by 
thine  own  hande  indyted.  Trewlie  it  is  a  most 
pleasaunt  thynge  to  gett  good  tydynges  from  onre 
own  beluvid  home,  and  from  those  wliome  we  dyd 
ye  most  hive  thereinne,  and  to  reade  ye  thoughts 
and  meditacions  in  their  pure  mindes  passinge, 
albeit  we  are  separated  from  them  by  a  farre  skie 
and  a  wide  waterre.  Rite  alwaye  and  often  thus, 
my  frende  ;  giv  me  alle  that  whiche  is  goinge 
abroade  in  our  towne,  or  wrorkynge  inwardlie  in 
thine  owne  sotile,  and  truste  me,  I  shall  be  more 
interested  therewithe  thanne  with  alle  ye  subiectes 
whiche  passe  before  mine  eies,  in  the  lande  where- 
inne  I  am  sojourninge.  For  tho,  in  sadde  truthe, 
my  father's  lande  be  of  a  grete  dystaunce  from  me 
atte  ye  present,  yitt  in  ye  geographie  of  my  affec 
tions  it  is  not  so  ;  for  there  it  is  layde  downe  as 
being  ever  ye  nearest  to  my  hearte. 

In  some  smalle  degree  to  answerr  your  good- 
nesse,  and  withalle  to  certifie  that  my  luve  of 
countrie  is  unfained,  I  have  for  sume  tyme  past 
resolved  to  treasure  up  in  minde  such  thynges  in 
this  lande,  as  I  shulde  deeme  good  to  be  intro- 
dewced  as  impruvements  ynto  mine  own  ;  and, 
moreover,  to  advertize  thee  of  such  impruvements 
ye  first  of  alle,  therebye  poweringe  out  atte  thy 
feet,  (as  it  were,)  ye  prime  fruictes  of  my  poore 
observacion.  And  I  dyd  thynke  (fonde  maiine,) 
11 


122  MISCELLANIES. 

that  I  schulde  finde,  amydde  alle  ye  maturities  of 
ye  olde  worlde,  enow  of  happie  customes  and  in- 
vencions,  wherewyth  to  make  wyse  ye  greennesse 
of  ye  new.  But  in  goode  soothe,  my  frende,  I 
have  heretofore  made  one  onlie  observacion  of 
soverain  weight  and  moment,  ye  which  I  will 
speedilie  delyverre.  It  is  as  touchynge  ye  affaire 
of  ladies  wearinge  pockyttes.  It  doth,  in  deede, 
gladde  me,  that  I  can,  in  this  matterre,  cawse 
benefytte,  (it  being  alwaie  understoode  that  heed 
is  given  to  my  sayinges,)  to  whatte  I  may  nomi 
nate  ye  faire  part  of  my  countrie,  and  not  of  mine 
own  countrie  alone,  but  of  every  countrie  belowe 
ye  swete  face  of  heaven.  That  they  are  faire  in 
face  and  forme  is  past  alle  dowbtynge  or  gaynsay- 
inge  ;  that  they  are  most  faire  in  minde,  I  can 
poinct  to  all  my  ladie  frendes  most  fullie  to  pruve  ; 
and  alle  voyageures  of  creditte  do  testifye  that  in 
whatsoever  land  they  may  be  tarryinge,  they  have 
continuallie  found  the  dysposicions,  and  ye  chari 
ties,  and  ye  sympathies  of  womanne,  most  faire, 
most  kynde,  most  beautyfulle.  "But  whatte  is  alle 
this,  (you  may  say)  to  their  pockyttes  ? "  Not 
much,  I  do  allowe  ;  and  I  will,  forth wyth,  hie  me 
back  to  my  subiecte. 

I  had  not  been  manie  houres  in  this  realme  of 
Englande,  whanne  it  was  my  chance  to  see  a  ladie 
drawe  forth  a  kerchief —  not  from  out  her  yndys- 


JOURNAL.  123 

pennsabil  —  but  her  pockytte  !  ay,  her  pockytte, 
a  pockytte  fastened  to  her  syde,  and  covered 
with  her  cloathes,  as  in  former  daies  !  Good 
lack  !  thought  I,  faire  dame,  you  seem  in  this 
matterre  to  entertaine  a  marvellous  affectcion  for 
ye  mannerres  of  thy  grandame  ;  I  wot  if  ye  yonge 
ladies  in  my  towne  schulde  see  thee  do  this  thynge, 
they  would  hardlie  refraine  from  laughynge  aloude. 
Nathelesse,  before  that  I  had  tarried  in  that  place 
manie  daies,  I  did  see  that  everie  one  and  alle  of 
ye  ladies,  bothe  yonge  and  eld,  riche  and  poore, 
dyd  beare  with  them  pockyttes  in  ye  stedde  of 
yndyspennsabils  ;  or,  if  I  may  be  granted  ye  con- 
ceipt,  their  pockyttes  were  their  yndyspennsabils. 
In  a  smalle  periode,  this  usaige  of  theirs  appeared 
to  me  not  onlie  tolerabil,  but  delectabil ;  a  usaige 
to  be  chosen,  and  with  favore  accepted  by  ye 
ladies  of  my  owne  towne.  . 

Ye  vantaige  holden  by  pockyttes  above  yndys 
pennsabils  (with  falsitie  so  yclept,)  I  will  make 
try  alle  breeflie  to  sett  forthe.  Primarilie,  it  is  man- 
ifeste  that  pockyttes  are  of  more  securitie  ;  they 
are  not  so  easie  to  lose,  or  to  be  rapt  awaie  by 
theeves.  And,  secondlie,  pockyttes  are  of  more 
conveniencie  ;  they  abide  faste  by  their  possessour, 
and  will  not  be  forgottyn  and  left  at  home.  Now, 
whanne  ye  yndyspennsabil  is  forgottyn  and  left 
at  home  by  anie  one  ladie.  how  is  that  ladie  for- 


124  MISCELLANIES. 

lorne  ?  how  is  she  to  swoone  or  fainte  in  a  seemlie 
mannerre  withouten  her  lyttle  bottyl  of  essencies  ? 
how  schall  she  drynke  her  cuppe  of  tea  withouten 
her  kerchief  on  her  lappe  ?  and  withouten  her  fanne 
for  to  hold  before  her  face,  how  schall  we  know 
that  she  doth  blushe  ?  Thirdlie,  pockyttes  are  of 
more  economie,  inasmuch  as  they  calle  not  for  so 
costlie  materielles  as  do  yndyspennsabils.  But  I 
have  said  enow  in  commendacion  of  pockyttes. 
Unto  alle  this  ye  ladies  will  make  answerre  that  a 
pockytte  doeth  harme  to  ye  comelinesse  of  forme. 
I  say,  in  no  wise  ;  and  that  I  never  made  cogni 
zance  of  a  pockytte  which  dyd  do  hurte  to  faire 
Englische  ladie's  symmetric.  I  pray  thee,  my 
frende,  take  heede  to  this  matterre,  and  firstlie  put 
thee  on  a  pockytte  thyselfe,  and  then  cawse  ye  la 
dies  of  Boston,  and  in  specialle  of  my  parishe,  to 
followe  thy  ensample  ;  so  that  atte  my  returnynge, 
whanne  that  I  beholde  them  shed  tears  of  glad- 
nesse,  I  may  likewise  see  them  put  their  handes 
ynto  their  pockyttes  for  a  kerchief  to  wipe  ye 
same. 

For  myselfe,  I  remaine  in  Englande  ye  com- 
ynge  winterre  and  ye  springe,  to  ye  which  I  am 
induced  by  cawses  thou  wilt  have  learned  ere  this. 
I  go  soon  to  some  towne  on  ye  coaste  of  Devon, 
of  which  Exeter,  as  thou  knowest,  is  the  chiefest 
citie.  My  benison}  and  the  blessinge  of  ye  Holie 


JOURNAL.  125 

One  be  upon  thee  and  upon  thy  sisterres  deare. 
Rite  soone  to  hym  that  remaineth  till  deth,  and 
will  be,  he  trusteth,  after  deth,  thy  trewe  frende. 
F.  W.  P.  GREENWOOD. 

September  17.  I  attended  morning  service  at 
the  cathedral,  introduced  as  before  at  Winchester, 
to  the  stall  of  a  dignitary.  The  choir  is  extremely 
beautiful ;  and  I  must  confess  that  though  the  fine 
chanting,  and  the  solemnity  of  the  service,  pre 
vented  me  from  wandering  till  it  was  completed, 
I  paid  more  earnest  and  reverential  attention  to 
the  grand  eastern  window,  with  its  mullions,  and 
tracery,  and  old  painted  glass,  the  masterly  groin 
ing  of  the  roof,  the  bishop's  throne  of  time-stained 
oak,  lightly  rising  in  gothic  open  work,  till  it  al 
most  touched  the  ceiling,  and  the  rich  carved  work 
in  oak  and  stone,  which  was  lavished  all  around 
me,  than  I  did  to  the  sleepy  discourse  and  drowsy 
tones  of  the  old  gentleman  who  was  handling  some 
subject  or  other  in  the  pulpit,  I  know  not  what,  as 
well  as  he  knew  how.  Between  the  works  of 
men  of  different  countries,  different  ages,  and  dif 
ferent  persuasions,  there  is  a  difference  as  wide  ; 
but  men  themselves  are  still  the  same.  In  the 
splendid  arches,  and  with  the  affecting  service  of 
the  cathedral,  there  is  not  a  whit  more  of  genuine 
piety  and  elevation  of  thought  than  there  is  be 
ll* 


126  MISCELLANIES. 

neath  the  plain  roof  and  with  the  plainer  service 
of  the  meeting-house  or  the  convention.  Go  not, 
therefore,  into  one  of  these  glorious  edifices  with 
the  expectation  of  joining  in  the  worship  of  the 
Almighty,  with  those  whose  hearts  are  melted  and 
whose  minds  are  exalted  by  every  sublime  asso 
ciation  and  aid  in  the  performance  of  their  holiest 
duty  ;  for  you  will  still  meet  with  the  indifferent, 
the  trifling,  the  vain,  the  worthless  and  the  worldly ; 
and  as  the  fat  monk  and  the  trim  baron  muttered 
and  kneeled  there  in  days  long  gone,  so  you  will 
find  the  dull  priest  and  the  dandy  gentleman, 
preaching,  and  praying,  and  chanting  there  still. 

September  24.  There  is  a  respectable  congre 
gation  of  Unitarian  Dissenters  in  Exeter.  On  the 
list  of  their  ministers  are  the  distinguished  names 
of  Towgood,  Kenrick  and  Carpenter.  I  attended 
service  at  their  meeting-house  to-day. 

September  26.  Another  visit  to  the  cathedral, 
where  I  did  a  very  foolish  thing ;  ascended  the 
north  tower,  notwithstanding  every  step  of  the 
spiral  stone  staircase  made  my  heart  beat  faster 
and  faster.  I  hope,  however,  to  escape  this  time 
with  impunity.  The  great  bell  which  is  hung  at 
the  top  of  this  tower,  weighs  twelve  thousand  five 
hundred  pounds.  From  the  leads  I  was  gratified 
with  a  fine  prospect ;  the  city  spread  out  beneath 
me,  the  winding  river,  the  seats  and  villages,  Ex- 
mouth  with  its  shipping,  situated,  as  its  name  im- 


JOURNAL.  127 

plies,  at  the  mouth  of  the  Exe  ;  and,  beyond  it,  the 
expanse  of  the  British  channel.  After  descend 
ing,  I  went  to  the  chapter-house,  which  is  now 
undergoing  repairs.  The  chapter-house  is  an  ap 
pendage,  I  believe,  to  every  cathedral ;  connected 
with,  though  separate  from  it,  and  is  used  for  the 
meetings  of  the  dean  and  chapter.  This  one  is  of 
an  octagonal  form,  and  is  ornamented  within  by 
some  curious  bass-reliefs. 

October  4.  I  hear  so  many  contradictory  ac 
counts  with  respect  to  the  relative  superiority  of 
the  several  places  of  winter  resort  on  the  south 
coast  of  Devon,  that  I  am  led  to  suspect  that  there 
is  not  much  real  difference  between  them,  and 
have  determined  to  visit  them  in  succession.  Be 
tween  the  hours  of  eleven  and  twelve,  this  morn 
ing,  I  set  out  in  a  post-chaise  for  Sidmouth,  and 
after  an  uninteresting  ride  of  fifteen  miles,  arrived 
there  at  about  two  o'clock.  The  waves  of  the 
channel  were  rolling  most  majestically  upon  the 
clean  gravelly  beach,  and  I  delighted  once  more 
to  breathe  the  salt  air.  Sidmouth  is  a  small  town, 
protected  by  high  hills  on  every  side  but  the  south  ; 
in  which  quarter  it  is  quite  open  and  exposed  to 
the  sea,  as  the  channel,  from  its  width  here,  may 
properly  be  called.  The  Sid,  a  mere  rivulet,  emp 
ties,  by  the  side  of  the  eastern  or  Salcombe  hill, 
its  scanty  tribute  to  the  main,  and  gives  its  name 


128  MISCELLANIES. 

to  the  village.  The  Peak  Hill  and  the  High  Peak 
on  the  west,  cut  through  in  the  midst,  and  present 
ing  their  perpendicular  fronts  to  the  sea,  and  the 
long  range  of  bold  and  lofty  cliffs,  stretching  in  a 
crescent-like  direction,  twelve  miles  to  the  east, 
together  with  the  blue  and  misty  fragments  of  more 
distant  land,  present  to  the  view  as  noble  a  piece 
of  coast  scenery  as  I  have  ever  seen.  My  place 
of  residence  is  as  romantic  as  heart  could  wish ;  a 
little  cottage  ornee,  of  one  story,  covered  with  ivy 
and  roses,  and  perched  on  a  low  cliff  which  over 
hangs  the  sea,  at  the  foot  of  Peak  Hill.  It  is  ten 
anted  by  a  drawing-master,  who  boards  and  lodges 
me  for  two  guineas  per  week. 

October  8.  There  is  one  church  at  Sidmouth, 
and  two  meeting-houses  ;  one  of  them  belonging 
to  a  congregation  of  Unitarian  Dissenters,  and  the 
other  to  a  society  of  Methodists.  The  Unitarian 
place  of  worship  is  simple  and  humble  enough  ; 
quite  primitive  —  literally  a  cottage  with  white 
washed  walls  and  a  thatched  roof,  overgrown  with 
moss.  I  attended  divine  service  here  to-day. 

SIDMOUTH,  Devon,  October  20,  1820. 
MY  DEAR  PARENTS,          • 

It  is  probable  that  you  will  receive  this  letter 
by  the  same  vessel  which  takes  one  addressed  to 

Mr. ,  and  intended  for  the  eyes  of  the  parish. 

I  beg  you  not  to  be  alarmed  by  anything  which  I 


JOURNAL.  129 

have  stated  in  it,  but  to  rest  assured  that,  although 
rnv  hopes  are  not  very  strong  with  respect  to  be 
ing  able  to  preach  again,  at  least  within  several 
years,  should  I  live  so  long,  I  am  yet  in  better 
health  than  when  I  sailed  from  Boston.  I  had 
the  pleasure  of  receiving  a  letter  from  you,  my 
dear  mother,  dated  August  14,  and  numbered  4,  a 
few  days  ago.  I  was  much  affected  at  the  solici 
tude  you  express  respecting  my  health  and  com 
fort,  and  much  concerned  that  your  fears  should 
be  excited  to  such  a  degree  by  Mrs.  F.'s  account 
of  my  weakness,  and  my  own  relation  of  head 
aches,  &c. ;  for  if  your  apprehensions  were  so 
great  on  hearing  that  my  voyage  had  not  been 
productive  of  the  expected  benefit,  wrhat  must  they 
have  been  when  you  learned  that  I  had  again  been 
attacked  with  bleeding  at  the  lungs  ?  Indeed,  I 
should  not  be  surprised  to  see  my  dear  father  in 
Devonshire  this  winter,  after  what  he  has  said 
about  "  crossing  the  herring  pond,  to  look  me 
up."  But  though  it  would  give  me  inexpressible 
delight  to  see  him,  I  sincerely  hope  he  will  not 
come  ;  because  by  crossing  this  same  pond  he 
will  leave  a  large  and  a  young  family  on  the  other 
side  of  it,  who  very  much  need  his  presence  and 
care,  and  require  his  assistance  and  superintend 
ence  much  more  than  I  do.  Think  if  any  acci 
dent  should  happen  to  him  too  —  his  health  and 


130  MISCELLANIES. 

life  are  infinitely  more  important  to  the  family  than 
mine  are.  Besides,  I  give  you  my  word  that  the 
moment  I  find  myself  growing  weaker  I  will  re 
turn  to  Boston,  and  to  my  friends  ;  for  however 
kind  the  friends  are  whom  I  have  made  abroad, 
there  are  no  friends  like  the  friends  of  home,  and 
I  dread  the  idea  of  a  long  fit  of  illness  away  from 
that  home,  as  much  as  you  can  deprecate  it  your 
selves.  I  do  not  say  this  because  I  fear  the  want 
of  attention  and  comfort,  but  because  no  one  can 
feel  more  sensibly  than  I  do,  the  absence  of  that 
sympathy  which  can  alone  be  rendered  by  those 
with  whom  God,  and  nature,  and  long  habits  of 
intercourse  and  familiarity,  have  connected  us  ; 
which  can  only  be  found,  I  repeat  it,  at  home.  So, 
father,  if  you  have  nothing  very  urgent  to  call  you 
across  the  herring-pond  but  your  fears  for  me,  I 
beseech  you  to  remain  in  Boston  ;  and  when  I 
come  back  you  shall  read  my  journal  through  and 
through,  which  will  be  almost  as  good  as  being 
here  yourself. 

One  more  word  to  you,  mother.  Never,  I  beg 
you,  make  another  apology  for  your  letters.  First, 
because  you  cannot  possibly  write  a  single  word 
which  it  will  not  delight  me  to  read  ;  secondly,  be 
cause  you  ought  not  to  apologize  to  your  son ;  and, 
thirdly,  because  the  space  which  an  apology  occu 
pies  might  be  filled,  I  speak  under  correction. 


JOURNAL.  131 

with  more  interesting  matter.  The  apology  in 
your  last  letter,  for  instance,  took  up  nearly  a 
page  ;  and  in  this  page  you  might  have  informed 

me  how  felt    about    entering    college,   and 

whether  he  has  entered,  and  have  told  me  of  your 
residence  at  Waltham,  of  which  I  should  have 
been  entirely  ignorant,  had  I  not  been  told  of  it 
by  Mrs.  P.  The  children,  too,  should  be  stirred 
up  to  their  duty.  Neither  of  them  has  written 

excepting ,  and  she  only  once.      It  is  very 

singular  that  a  little  girl,  whose  name  I  could 
mention,  could  write  a  farce  in  two  acts,  and  not 
be  able  to  write  one  line  to  her  absent  brother. 
Your  expressions  of  gratitude  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
F.  are  no  more  than  their  just  due  ;  indeed,  no 
thanks  can  discharge  the  debt  I  owe  them  ;  and 
this  is  equally  true  with  regard  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
F.  B.  You  speak  of  advice  which  father  has  fa 
vored  me  with  ;  but  I  have  received  only  one  let 
ter  from  him. 

Since  I  wrote  you  last,  I  have  made  a  journey 
of  one  hundred  and  seventy-two  miles  from  Lon 
don  to  Exeter,  and  of  fifteen  from  Exeter  to  Sid- 
mouth,  where  I  now  am.  Neither  of  them  at  all 
fatigued  me ;  and  I  have  been  much  gratified  by 
the  interesting  objects  which  I  had  the  opportu 
nity  of  seeing  in  the  first.  At  Winchester,  I  heard 
the  cathedral  service  chanted,  as  I  happened  to 


132  MISCELLANIES. 

be  there  on  a  Sunday.  Every  cathedral  maintains 
a  certain  number  of  choristers,  who  are  dressed  in 
white  robes  when  they  perform  service  ;  they  are 
all  males  ;  the  treble  and  counter  are  sung  by 
young  boys.  The  separate  prayers  are  read  in  a 
sing-song  kind  of  a  tone  by  one  of  the  officiating 
priests,  and  the  responses  of  the  litany,  &c.,  are 
sung  by  the  choristers.  The  effect  of  this  is  very 
fine.  I  made  an  excursion,  when  at  Salisbury,  of 
ten  miles,  to  see  the  famous  druidical  monument 
of  Stonehenge,  of  which  you  have,  no  doubt, 
heard.  At  Exeter  I  used  often  to  hear  the  cathe 
dral  service,  which  is  there  accompanied  by  one 
of  the  best  organs  in  England.  One  of  its  pipes 
is  fifteen  inches  in  diameter.  I  have  not  yet  been 
enabled  to  judge  if  what  they  say  of  the  Devon 
shire  climate  is  true,  because  it  is  so  early.  There 
has  been  a  great  deal  of  wind  and  rain  here  at 
Sidmouth  lately ;  and  though  the  autumn  has  been 
very  pleasant,  it  is  not  so  fine  as  our  own  autumns 
generally  are.  I  have  no  doubt,  however,  that 
the  winter  will  be  much  milder  than  I  could  ex 
pect  in  America.  I  have  not  marked  this  letter 
private  ;  there  is  a  great  deal  that  is  personal,  but 
you  are  at  liberty  to  show  it  or  not,  as  you  please. 
Remember  me  to  those  whom  I  at  all  times  and 
in  all  places  remember,  particularly  my  good  par 
ishioners.  Let  Dr.  J.  know  that  I  am  very  pru- 


JOURNAL.  133 

dent  and  temperate.     Heaven  bless  the  children. 

I  have  written  to  them  all,  excepting ,  who 

shall  soon  have  a  long  letter. 

Your  most  affectionate  son, 

FRANCIS. 

October  25.  The  second  month  of  autumn  is 
now  nearly  gone  ;  the  leaves  are  putting  on  their 
russet ;  the  birds  are  losing  their  song ;  the  sea  rolls 
heavier  ;  the  wind  blows  keener  ;  and  the  grate 
must  be  heaped  higher  with  coals.  We  have  had 
two  or  three  storms  of  wind  since  my  arrival,  but 
on  the  whole  it  has  been  a  pleasant  October.  I 
think,  however,  that  it  must  yield  to  that  month 
in  our  own  country.  Its  air  has  but  little  of  the 
bracing,  bounding  inspiration  which  is  breathed  in 
the  gales  of  ours ;  and  in  the  charm  which  it  gives 
to  natural  scenery  it  cannot  stand  in  the  compari 
son.  Here  the  scanty  woods  are  clothed  in  one 
prevailing  tint  of  yellowish  brown  ;  while  our  lux 
uriant  and  primeval  forests  are  dyed  with  the 
richest,  the  brightest,  and  most  varied  hues  of  na 
ture's  pencil. 

Our  cottage  overlooks  the  beach,  and  I  have 
been  surprised  to  find  that,  cold  as  it  is,  the  ladies 
have  not  yet  given  up  bathing  ;  every  morning  I 
see  from  my  window,  while  I  am  dressing,  several 
of  them  braving  the  element ;  but  not  a  single 
12 


134  MISCELLANIES. 

man.  The  way  in  which  they  bathe  is  as  follows  : 
the  lady  enters  one  of  the  bathing  machines  which 
stand  along  the  beach  —  little  wooden  houses  upon 
high  wheels  —  and  it  is  moved  down  to  the  wa 
ter's  edge.  After  undressing,  she  puts  on  a  long 
loose  gown,  and  descends  from  the  machine,  by  a 
step-ladder,  upon  the  sand.  There  she  is  met  by 
a  couple  of  old  fishermen's  wives,  called  guides, 
each  of  whom  takes  an  arm,  and,  turning  her  back 
to  the  water,  wait  for  the  next  wave.  It  comes 
dashing  on  ;  and,  just  as  it  curls  and  breaks  on 
the  shore,  they  plunge  her  backward,  and  she  is 
completely  overwhelmed.  This  is  repeated  as 
often  as  desired,  and  the  lady  then  returns  to  the 
machine  and  dresses. 

November  30.  I  have  now  staid  here  a  month 
longer  than  I  had  at  first  intended,  and  have  made 
up  my  mind  to  remain  till  after  Christmas.  The 
weather  has  been  quite  as  mild,  to  say  the  least, 
as  I  expected  to  find  it.  I  have  kept  through  the 
month  a  regular  thermometrical  journal  ;  setting 
down  the  degree  of  the  instrument  at  nine  in  the 
morning,  at  noon,  and  at  ten  at  night.  The  result 
has  been  as  follows.  The  lowest  degree  shown 
in  the  morning  was  35°,  on  the  16th  of  the  month ; 
and  the  highest  was  54°,  on  the  8th.  The  lowest 
at  noon  was  40°,  on  the  14th,  18th,  and  29th  of  the 
month  ;  and  the  highest  was  58°,  on  the  3d.  The 


JOURNAL.  135 

lowest  at  night  was  35°,  on  the  15th  and  18th  of 
the  month  ;  and  the  highest  was  53°,  on  the  5th, 
6th,  and  7th.  The  change  of  temperature  through 
out  the  day,  from  nine  in  the  morning  to  ten  at 
night,  has  not  often  been  more  than  six  or  eight 
degrees,  though  on  some  days  it  has  been  from 
twelve  to  eighteen  degrees,  but  never  twenty. 
The  weather  has  been  unusually  good  ;  we  have 
had  some  rain  and  fog,  to  be  sure,  but  it  has  never 
been  either  rainy  or  foggy  throughout  one  whole 
day.  Several  plants  continue  to  flower  in  the  gar 
dens,  and  the  trees  have  but  just  resigned  all  their 
honors.  I  fear  that  weather  like  this  cannot  last 
much  longer. 

December  14.  It  has  lasted  thus  far,  however, 
pretty  much  the  same  ;  not  quite  so  much  sun, 
perhaps,  and  a  little  more  rain.  The  heavens 
have  been  bright  and  blue  to-day,  from  morn  to 
even  ;  and  I  improved  the  opportunity  of  paying 
a  visit  to  Bicton,  the  seat  of  Lord  Rolle,  near  the 
village  of  Otterton,  and  between  three  and  four 
miles  from  Sidmouth.  I  went  on  horseback,  or 
rather  on  the  back  of  a  shuffling  pony,  who  was 
just  high  enough  to  keep  my  feet  from  the  mud. 
"  It  was,  indeed,  a  very  sorry  hack  ;  "  and  so  have 
been  all  the  hired  horses  which  I  have  crossed  in 
England  ;  they  are  not  to  be  compared  with  ours  : 
and  I  suppose  the  fact'  may  be  accounted  for  thus  ; 


136  MISCELLANIES. 

in  this  country  there  are  so  many  gentlemen  who 
have  horses  of  their  own,  that  it  is  no  great  object 
with  those  who  let  out  horses,  that  they  should  be 
good  ones  ;  the  demand  would  not  pay  the  pur 
chase  and  the  keeping  ;  but  with  us,  there  are  so 
many  who  are  in  continual  want  of  a  saddle-horse, 
either  for  exercise,  business  or  pleasure,  and  who 
like  to  bestride  a  fine  looking  animal,  though  they 
do  not  wish  or  cannot  afford  to  keep  one,  that  it 
becomes  the  interest  of  those  who  serve  their  want 
to  serve  them  well,  and  mount  them  on  really  val 
uable  and  goodly  steeds.  The  hackney-coaches, 
too,  of  Liverpool  and  London,  and  the  poor  beasts 
that  draw  them,  would  not  be  tolerated  in  Boston  ; 
and  the  reason  of  the  difference  is  the  same. 

But  to  return  to  my  pony  and  my  excursion. 
Otterton  is,  like  most  of  the  Devonshire  villages 
which  I  have  seen,  a  long  street  of  mud  cottages, 
thatched  and  whitewashed.  And  let  not  the  men 
tion  of  mud  walls  necessarily  convey  the  idea  of 
meanness  and  misery  ;  for,  when  properly  con 
structed  and  freshly  whitewashed,  they  look  very 
neat  and  durable  ;  just  as  a  Virginia  log-house, 
though  bearing  a  most  unpromising  name,  may, 
notwithstanding,  be  a  very  comfortable  mansion. 
Over  the  Otter,  a  stream  which  runs  through  the 
village,  and  gives  it  a  name,  is  a  pretty  stone 
bridge  of  three  arches,  which  are  old  enough  to 


JOURNAL.  137 

be  fringed  with  ivy.  Not  far  beyond  the  bridge, 
four  roads  meet ;  and  an  ancient  stone  cross, 
mounted  on  a  square  brick  pillar  of  more  modern 
date,  is  the  picturesque  guide  to  the  traveller. 
Under  the  cross  and  on  each  of  the  four  sides  of 
the  pillar  is  carved  a  text  from  scripture,  two  of 
which  I  remember  :  "  Make  me  to  go  in  the  paths 
of  thy  commandments,  for  therein  is  my  desire  ;  " 
the  other,  "  Her  ways  are  ways  of  pleasantness, 
and  all  her  paths  are  peace."  While  these  point 
out  the  heavenly  road,  inscriptions  below  direct 
the  reader  on  his  earthly  journey. 

My  way  was  to  the  right ;  and  I  soon  came  to 
a  neat  little  church,  most  beautifully  situated  on 
the  road-side,  within  the  park,  and  overhung  by 
its  tall  trees.  I  tied  my  pony  to  the  gate  of  a  cot 
tage  opposite,  and  entered  the  grounds  of  Lord 
Rolle  by  the  foot-path,  which  led  to  the  romantic 
church  of  Bicton,  and  thence  to  the  porter's  lodge. 
Part  of  the  park  is  laid  out  in  the  old  fashion,  with 
strait  gravel  walks,  artificial  basins  of  water,  and 
tinkling  cascades  ;  but  the  rest  has  assumed  the 
features  of  modem  landscape  gardening.  Having 
knocked  at  the  door  of  the  house,  a  recent  and 
plain  structure  of  brick,  two  powdered  servants 
answered  the  summons,  "  Can  I  be  permitted  to 
see  the  house  ?  "  with  "  It  has  not  been  shown, 
sir,  since  her  ladyship's  death  ; "  and  so  I  had 

12* 


138  MISCELLANIES. 

nothing  to  do  but  admire  the  bridge,  the  canal, 
and  the  old  oaks,  remount  my  pony,  and  return 
to  Sidmouth. 

SIDMOUTH,  Devon,  December  4,  1820. 
MY  DEAR  PARENTS, 

Having  written  you  so  lately,  I  have  nothing  to 
say  about  my  situation,  the  climate,  and  other 
matters,  which  would  be  interesting  to  our  friends  ; 
and  have,  therefore,  marked  this  letter  private,  as 
I  am  going  to  talk  about  things  which  are  merely 
between  ourselves.  In  the  first  place,  I  must  tell 
you  I  want  to  see  home  most  terribly  ;  especially 
when  the  east  wind  blows,  as  it  will  sometimes 
even  here,  and  my  spirits  are  at  low- water  mark. 
A  thousand  circumstances  are  perpetually  bring 
ing  me  in  mind  of  you,  and  almost  making  me 
repent  that  I  ever  left  you.  Every  time  I  put  on 
a  blister,  or  change  the  dressings,  I  think  how 
nicely  you  used  to  do  it  for  me,  mother  ;  every 
time  the  cloth  is  removed  after  dinner,  and  I  am 
left  to  amuse  or  occupy  myself  as  I  can,  I  think 
how  glad  I  used  to  feel  to  see  you  come  in  to  let 
me  beat  you  at  chess,  father  ;  and  every  time  I 
see  a  chubby,  rosy-cheeked  child,  I  am  reminded 
of  the  brothers  and  sisters  I  love  so  dearly.  These 
recollections  are  sometimes  almost  too  much  for 
me,  now  that  I  am  locked  up  and  made  a  prisoner 
of  by  winter,  and  have  little  variety  to  arrest  my 


JOURNAL.  139 

attention,  and  keep  me  from  musing  on  my  pri 
vations.  I  might  move  about,  to  be  sure,  as  the 
climate  is  mild  enough  here  to  permit  of  travelling 
on  almost  any  day  ;  but  travelling  is  expensive  ; 
and,  beside  that,  when  I  have  once  settled  down 
in  a  place  and  am  comfortable  in  it,  I  do  not  like 
the  trouble  and  chances  of  changing.  But  when 
spring  comes,  and  the  roads  are  dry,  and  the  sun 
is  warm,  and  the  birds  are  singing,  and  my  mind 
has  recovered  its  wonted  tone,  I  shall  travel  fa 
mously,  and  enjoy  myself,  and  nearly  forget  you ; 
don't  you  think  I  shall  ?  Well,  perhaps  not,  but, 
at  any  rate,  I  shall  feel  stronger,  and  not  be  so 
home-sick. 

My  situation  here,  excepting  its  unavoidable 
monotony,  is  as  favorable  as  it  wellnigh  can  be. 
I  have  lived,  since  the  4th  of  October,  in  a  pretty 
little  cottage,  with  a  sensible,  good-natured  young 
man,  who  is  a  drawing-master  ;  and  thus  you  see  I 
am  hardly  ever  obliged  to  be  entirely  alone.  At  my 
suggestion,  and  for  my  convenience,  he  has  lately 
ordered  a  study  leaf  to  be  put  up  in  the  parlor, 
like  that  in  my  study,  you  know ;  and  this,  also, 
reminds  me  strongly  of  home.  It  reminds  me, 

too,  that  it  would  be  well  for to  have  one  at 

college,  on  which  he  should  do  all  his  writing,  and 
a  great  part  of  his  studying.  I  believe  there  used 
to  be  one  in  No.  l,  Stoughton,  when  I  knew  it ; 


140  MISCELLANIES. 

but  it  may  have  been  taken  down.  If  there  is 
none  there  now,  I  wish  you  would  suggest  the 

thing  to ,  and  urge  it.     I  know  it  is  of  vast 

use,  especially  to  those  who  are  rather  weakly  and 
tall,  as  he  is.  I  could  not  do  without  one  ;  the  con 
tinual  stooping  of  the  body  over  a  low  table  is  of 
great  injury  to  the  chest,  and  the  vital  parts  which 
it  encloses  ;  and  I  am,  by  this  time,  too  well  ac 
quainted  with  the  obstinate  nature  of  diseases  of 
those  organs,  not  to  deprecate  habits  which,  I  am 

sure,  are  likely   to  occasion  them.     should 

be  also  advised  and  exhorted  to  take  constant  ex 
ercise.  It  were  even  better  that  he  should  be 
screiued,  as  they  call  it,  now  and  then,  in  the  reci 
tation-room,  than  that  his  health  should  be  put  in 
jeopardy.  I  am  certain,  however,  that  there  is 
time  both  to  exercise  enough,  and  to  study  enough. 
You  ask  me,  mother,  in  one  of  your  late  letters, 
whether  you  shall  take  copies  of  your  future  ones, 
as  you  are  afraid  that  you  repeat  yourself.  I  an 
swer,  by  no  means  give  yourself  that  trouble.  You 
have  not  repeated  yourself,  as  I  see  ;  and  if  you 
had  or  should,  what  would  be  the  harm  ?  I  am 
delighted  to  see  anything  from  you,  and  love  to 
read  it  all,  both  old,  if  there  is  any  old,  and  new. 
You  must  be  conscious,  beside,  that  the  time  it 
would  take  to  copy  one  letter,  might  be  better 
employed  in  writing  another.  Do  tell  the  child- 


JOURNAL.  141 

ren  to  write  more  ;  and  not  to  write  such  formal 
epistles,  but  to  give  me  an  account  of  two  or  three 
days,  or  a  week,  in  as  easy  and  off-hand  a  style 
as  possible,  and  tell  me  of  every  little  occurrence 
that  happens  in  the  allotted  time  ;  no  matter  how 
clumsy  they  think  their  expressions  are  ;  practice 

will  polish  them.  I  have  lectured already, 

on  this  point ;  but  I  could  not  help  mentioning  it 
again.  You  have  my  hearty  thanks,  my  dear  fa 
ther,  for  your  letters  ;  and  I  hope  you  will  con 
tinue  them. 

Christmas  is  drawing  nigh  ;  and  I  shall  not  fail 
to  send  my  thoughts,  on  that  day,  to  the  family- 
table,  that  they  may  witness  your  solemn  incision 
of  the  Cheshire  cheese ;  though,  as  I  am  no  great 
of  an  astronomer  or  mathematician,  I  may  be  two 
or  three  hours  out  of  the  way  in  my  calculation  of 
the  dinner  time.  That  will  be  of  no  consequence, 
however,  as  my  mind's  eye  will  most  assuredly 
see  the  operation,  without  paying  much  heed  to 
the  clock. 

I  shall  leave  Sidmouth  on  the  first  of  next  month, 
and  go  to  Dawlish,  another  small  town  on  this 
coast,  about  a  dozen  miles  off;  where  I  intend  to 
remain  as  long  as  is  agreeable  to  me,  and  whence 
my  next  letter  will  most  probably  be  dated.  I 
have  just  taken  a  pleasant  walk  of  three  miles, 
without  fatigue  ;  the  robins,  goldfinches,  wagtails 


142  MISCELLANIES. 

and  sparrows,  are  twittering  about  in  all  directions, 
and  the  grass  and  many  other  things  are  green  ;  the 
thermometer  was  55°  to-day  at  noon,  in  the  shade. 
I  bought  a  thermometer  at  Carey's,  in  London, 
on  purpose  to  obtain  an  accurate  idea  of  the  tem 
perature  of  Devonshire  during  the  winter  ;  and  I 
set  down  on  a  piece  of  paper  the  degree  at  nine 
in  the  morning,  at  noon,  and  at  ten  at  night. 

You  see  I  have  written  you  quite  a  family  let 
ter,  and  I  hope  it  will  please  you.  I  shall  write 
to-morrow  to  Dr.  J. ;  and  from  him  you  can  ob 
tain  a  more  particular  account  of  my  health.  You 

tell  me,  mother,  that  Miss would  write  me, 

if  she  did  not  think  I  should  feel  myself  obliged  to 
write  in  return.  Pray  say  to  her,  the  next  time 
you  see  her,  that  if  she  will  only  be  so  kind  as  to 
write,  it  shall  be  as  she  pleases  whether  I  write  to 
her  again  ;  but  that  it  would  always  give  me  the 
greatest  pleasure,  both  to  receive  letters  from  her 
and  to  answer  them.  Best  love  to  the  children, 
relatives  and  friends. 

Your  affectionate  son, 

FRANCIS. 

December  25.  Christmas  day  —  which  in  this 
country  is  still  celebrated  with  many  of  the  old 
observances.  For  some  evenings  past,  a  company 
of  little  girls  have  been  singing  their  carols  under 


JOURNAL.  143 

our  cottage  window  ;  and  if  there  was  but  little 
melody  and  less  art  in  their  performance,  I  have 
often  heard  better  music  which  has  pleased  me 
worse.  These  carols  are  simply  hymns  appro 
priate  to  the  season,  and  sung  to  the  tunes  with 
which  they  are  commonly  accompanied.  The 
greatest  favorite  with  our  little  choristers  was, 
"  While  shepherds  watch  their  flocks  by  night." 
This  is  a  custom  which  keeps  its  ground  through 
out  England  ;  but  there  are  others  which  are  en 
tirely  forgotten  and  laid  aside,  excepting  in  a  few 
scattered  spots  and  retired  villages. 

I  witnessed,  this  evening,  a  relic  of  the  ancient 
Christmas  gambols,  in  the  performances  of  a  com 
pany  of  rustic  actors,  who  still  retain  the  name  of 
"  Mummers."  It  was,  indeed,  but  a  relic  and  a 
shadow  of  those  masques  and  shows,  which,  in  the 
olden  time,  were  deemed  so  indispensable  to  the 
due  and  proper  keeping  of  this  holiday,  but  still  it 
possessed  a  strong  hold  on  my  imagination,  from 
the  mere  circumstance  of  its  derivation.  Our 
company  was  composed  of  ten  or  fifteen  farmers' 
boys  and  sons  of  the  village  tradesfolk,  who,  for 
more  than  a  month,  had  been  conning  and  re 
hearsing  their  parts  for  this  important  occasion. 
As  soon  as  the  morning  service  was  over,  they 
marched  forth,  clad  in  the  most  fantastic  and  gor 
geous  dresses  of  flaming  silk,  garnished  with  tin- 


144  MISCELLANIES. 

sel  and  ribands,  and  slashed  and  patched  with  all 
the  colors  of  the  rainbow.  Following  their  leader 
from  house  to  house,  they  knocked  at  each  door, 
and  asked  if  "  they  would  please  see  the  mum 
mers?"  and  according  as  permission  was  given 
or  denied,  they  entered  or  moved  on. 

They  came  to  our  cottage  about  eight  o'clock 
in  the  evening,  and  at  my  solicitation  were  ad 
mitted.  Our  parlor  was  their  stage,  on  which  the 
speakers,  for  the  time  being,  performed  their  parts, 
while  the  rest  remained  in  the  entry.  The  first 
personage  who  presented  himself  was  a  stout  fel 
low,  dressed  in  an  old-fashioned  coat,  waistcoat, 
pair  of  breeches,  and  coarse  woollen  stockings, 
with  a  three-cornered  hat  on  his  head,  and  in  his 
hand  a  long  staff  with  a  round  knob  at  the  top, 
and  decked  with  flowing  knots  of  pink  riband. 
He  announced  himself  in  about  a  dozen  rhymes, 
beginning  with  "  Here  comes  I,  old  father  Christ 
mas  ;  "  and  after  courting  a  good  reception,  by 
informing  us  that  "  Old  father  Christmas  came  but 
once  a  year,"  and  telling  us  that  we  should  soon  see 
some  fine  sport,  he  retired.  The  next  performer 
appeared  in  the  costume  of  a  Turk  ;  with  a  tin 
crescent  and  a  cock's  feather  in  his  cap,  and  a 
crooked  sabre  in  his  hand,  which  he  flourished 
with  amazing  vehemence,  and  roared  forth  that 
he  was  a  Turkish  knight,  who  was  come  to  Eng- 


JOURNAL.  145 

land  to  burn,  kill  and  destroy,  till  there  was  not 
an  Englishman  left  in  the  country.  He  had  scarce 
finished  this  dreadful  speech,  when  in  stalked  an 
other,  equally  bold  in  his  language  and  splendid 
in  his  raiment,  who  let  us  know  that  he  was  St. 
George,  and  that  he  was  determined  to  fight  with 
the  Turkish  dog  till  he  had  hacked  the  flesh  from 
off  his  very  bones.  They  then  commenced  a  fu 
rious  dialogue  of  menace  and  vituperation,  chang 
ing  sides  alternately,  and  as  they  met  each  other, 
striking  their  swords  together  once.  Suddenly 
the  Turk  drops  his  sword,  confesses  himself  van 
quished,  and  begs  on  his  knees  for  his  life,  which 
St.  George  generously  grants  him. 

In  this  manner  several  couple  followed  upon  the 
stage  ;  among  whom  were  the  Duke  of  Welling 
ton  and  Bonaparte,  Lord  Nelson  and  a  French 
man,  &c.  The  battles  all  began,  were  carried 
on,  and  concluded,  alike  ;  always  terminating,  as 
a  matter  of  course,  to  the  advantage  of  the  Eng 
lishman.  The  contrast  between  the  mighty  char 
acters  they  assumed,  together  with  the  bloody 
purpose  of  their  rencounters,  the  awkwardness  of 
their  gait,  the  oddity  of  their  dress,  the  absurdity 
of  their  rhymes,  the  provincialism  of  their  speech, 
and  the  calm  and  regular  manner  in  which  they 
clashed  their  swords,  were  sufficiently  amusing. 
The  last  speaker,  after  hinting  his  expectations  of 

13 


146  MISCELLANIES. 

a  solid  gratification  for  all  this  mummery,  drew 
from  under  his  jacket  a  tin  ladle,  and  carried  it 
round  to  the  company  for  their  contributions.  I 
was  glad  that  I  had  seen  this  exhibition,  and  quite 
as  glad  when  it  was  over. 

December  26.  To-day  has  been  the  coldest  of 
the  month  ;  the  thermometer  standing  at  32°  in 
the  morning,  31°  at  noon,  and  32°  at -night.  Yes 
terday  it  stood  at  33°,  33°j  and  31°.  Previous  to 
this,  the  lowest  degree  in  the  morning  had  been 
35°,  on  the  14th  and  24th,  and  the  highest  54°,  on 
the  7th  ;  the  lowest  at  noon  40°,  on  the  14th,  and 
the  highest  56°,  on  the  7th  ;  the  lowest  at  night 
34°,  on  the  24th,  and  the  highest  53°,  on  the  loth. 
There  has  been  a  little  rain  and  mist,  and  much 
fine  weather  ;  almost  as  much  as  in  November. 
The  change  of  temperature  in  the  course  of  the 
day  has  not  been  so  great  as  in  that  month  ;  the 
greatest  having  been  a  fall  of  eleven  degrees  from 
the  noon  to  the  night  of  the  19th.  Excepting  this, 
the  change  for  the  rest  of  the  month  has  been 
hardly  more  than  two  or  three  degrees  during  the 
time  of  observation.  It  is  now  obviously  getting 
colder  ;  but  as  I  leave  Sidmouth  to-morrow,  I 
shall  not  have  the  opportunity  of  keeping  any  far 
ther  account  for  December. 

December  27.  I  dressed  myself  by  candle-light 
this  morning,  in  order  to  be  ready  for  the  Exeter 


JOURNAL.  147 

coach,  which  starts  precisely  at  eight.  A  little  be 
fore  that  time  the  porter  came  for  my  baggage, 
and  I  followed  him  to  the  inn.  The  coachman 
was  on  his  box,  the  steps  of  the  coach  were  down, 
I  jumped  in,  and  between  ten  and  eleven  o'clock, 
jumped  out  again  at  Exeter. 

December  29.  At  four  this  afternoon,  I  left  the 
house  of  my  kind  friend,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hincks, 
and  took  the  stage  to  Dawlish,  another  small  wa 
tering-place  on  the  coast,  about  fourteen  miles  to 
the  south-west  of  Sidmouth,  and  twelve  to  the 
south  of  Exeter.  The  sun  sets  at  four  o'clock  at 
this  season,  and  darkness  had  long  enveloped  us 
before  we  stopped  at  the  inn.  I  perceived,  as  I 
alighted,  that  there  was  snow  on  the  ground, 
though  hardly  enough  "to  cover  it.  The  cold  for 
two  or  three  days  has  been,  I  may  say,  very  se 
vere  ;  for  although  the  thermometer  does  not 
point  lower  than  from  25°  to  28°,  I  feel  the  effects 
of  the  weather  more  disagreeably  than  I  have  at 
home,  when  the  mercury  has  stood  many  degrees 
lower.  It  is  a  raw,  relentless,  piercing  cold,  which 
finds  out  the  marrow  in  one's  bones,  and  against 
which  exercise  seems  to  be  no  antidote,  and  fur 
and  flannel  no  guard. 

December  30.  Last  night  I  slept  at  the  inn. 
This  morning  I  chose  my  lodgings  ;  not  hanging 
over  the  sea,  as  at  Sidmouth,  but  as  far  from  it  as 
I  could  procure  them. 


148  *  MISCELLANIES. 

1821.  January  3.  A  new  year  has  come  ;  but 
no  new  hopes,  and,  thank  God,  no  new  fears,  or 
causes  of  fear.  Notwithstanding  the  cold,  my 
health  does  not  appear  materially  to  suffer  from 
it ;  and,  though  weak  and  disordered,  I  am  yet  no 
more  so  than  I  have  been  for  months.  This  is  all 
that  I  can  promise  myself ;  for  I  cannot  now  ex 
pect  any  essential  change  for  the  better,  till  the 
sun  is  high  and  the  trees  are  green. 

January  4.  It  snowed  all  yesterday,  and  the 
night  before  ;  and  to-day  it  lies  on  the  ground 
deep  and  drifted.  The  people  here  tell  me  that 
it  is  quite  uncommon  to  see  so  much  of  it.  Tak 
ing  advantage  of  a  little  sunshine,  I  ventured  out 
on  horseback  with  a  friend.  Near  the  sea-side, 
we  fell  in  with  a  high  drift ;  and  my  horse,  all  un 
accustomed  to  such  a  thing,  gave  an  unexpected 
plunge,  and  threw  me  into  the  snow-bank.  No 
more  serious  consequence,  however,  arose  from 
this  adventure,  than  the  trouble  of  brushing  my 
clothes,  and  getting  into  the  saddle  again. 

January  6.  More  snow  yesterday  ;  but  the  cold 
has  very  perceptibly  abated.  To-day  I  took  a 
long  walk.  Dawlish  is  sheltered,  as  Sidmouth  is, 
on  every  side  but  the  south-east,  by  hills.  That 
part  of  the  coast  which  extends  along  the  south, 
is  lined  with  dark  red  cliffs,  and  diversified  by  sea- 
worn  caves  and  projecting  masses  of  rock,  which, 


JOURNAL.  149 

from  fancied  resemblances,  have  acquired  the  cu 
rious  names  of  "  The  Parson  and  Clerk,"  "  The 
Bishop's  Parlor,"  &c.  On  the  beach  there  is,  as 
usual,  a  circulating  library  and  billiard-room. 
Removed  from  the  shore,  and  at  the  western  ex 
tremity  of  the  village,  is  a^pretty  gothic  church, 
shaded  by  trees,  and  surrounded  by  pleasant  gra 
vel  walks.  A  small  stream  runs  through  the  town, 
the  banks  of  which  have  been  carefully  sodded, 
and  connected  at  different  points  by  neat  bridges. 
On  each  side  of  this  stream  are  built  the  houses  of 
the  village  ;  most  of  them  small  and  slightly  con 
structed,  to  answer  the  sudden  growth  of  the  place, 
arising  from  an  increased  resort  of  visiters. 

DAWLISH,  Devon,  January  8,  1821. 

To  Miss  E C , 

You  cannot  surely  think,  my  dear  friend,  that  I 
could  oppose  your  wishes  on  the  subject  of  chang 
ing  your  place  of  worship.  E  ven  if  I  should  resume 
the  exercise  of  my  profession,  which  I  much  fear  I 
shall  never  be  able  to  do,  I  should  be  far  from  de 
siring  to  stand  in  the  way  of  your  obvious  accom 
modation  and  interest,  though  I  should  be  sorry 
to  lose  such  parishioners  as  yourself  and  sisters. 
I  should  be  certain  that  I  could  never  lose  you  as 
friends  ;  and  to  console  myself  for  not  seeing  you 
on  the  Sunday,  I  should  pay  you  one  visit  extra 
ordinary  during  the  week.  Still  I  cannot  say  but 

13* 


150  MISCELLANIES. 

that  your  attention  in  speaking  of  this  subject  was 
gratifying  to  me  —  for  we  are  all  pleased  with  at 
tention,  and  there  is  no  use  in  denying  it  —  and 
after  I  have  said  this  I  will  add  that  I  hope  you  have 
done  as  some  wild  young  lovers  do,  first  get  mar 
ried,  and  then  ask  their  parents'  consent ;  or  ask 
their  parents'  consent,  and  then  get  married  with 
out  waiting  till  they  have  obtained  it.  In  the  same 
way,  I  trust  you  have  gratified  yourself  by  hearing 
Mr.  Channing  this  winter,  without  staying  three 
months  for  an  approbation  which  you  knew  I 
could  not  be  so  unreasonable  and  so  unkind  as  to 
refuse.  Mind  this,  however,  that  although  I  may 
never  be  your  minister  again,  I  do  not  surrender 
a  tittle  of  my  spiritual  authority,  but  shall  still  take 
it  upon  me  to  admonish,  exhort  and  comfort,  as 
occasion  may  require,  both  you  and  your  house 
hold,  as  if  I  were  in  verity  your  pastor. 

And  now  this  matter  is  happily  settled  to  the 
satisfaction  of  all  parties  concerned,  we  will  turn 
us  to  other  things.  I  was  glad  that  my  letter  on 
pockets  met  with  so  favorable  a  reception  from 
you,  for,  truth  to  tell,  I  sent  it  its  ways  with  doubt 
and  fear  ;  but  now  that  I  find  your  taste  is  as 
comprehensive  as  I  suspected  it  was,  I  shall  no 
more  tremble  about  exposing  myself.  You  are 
aware  that  there  are  some  people  who  would  not 
have  known  what  to  make  of  such  an  epistle, 


JOURNAL.  151 

and  who  would  have  entertained  most  sage  doubts 
with  regard  to  the  sanity  of  the  writer's  wits,  but 
who  would  have  been  very  much  entertained  and 
edified  by  a  faithful  account  of  the  innkeepers' 
names  on  the  roads  through  which  I  passed,  and 
the  exact  sums  that  they  charged  for  their  small 
beer.  Now  I  never  supposed  that  you  were  so 
sober  and  rational  as  all  this,  but  I  only  feared 
that  I  might  have  given  you  too  large  a  dose  of 
nonsense  at  once. 

I  congratulate  you  on  being  so  happily  settled 

with  Mrs. ,  to  whose  amiable  qualities  I  am  not 

a  stranger,  though  I  am  entirely  so  to  her  person. 
I  feel  more  and  more  every  day  how  much  the  en 
joyment  of  my  own  existence  depends  not  merely 
on  society,  but  on  warm  and  proper  friendship. 
In  a  foreign  country,  I  have,  thank  Heaven,  found 
such  friendship  oftener  than  I  hoped  to  find  it ; 
but  it  is  impossible  to  meet  with  it  always  ;  you 
cannot  expect  to  fall  in  with  it  on  the  road,  or  ride 
with  it  in  the  public  coach,  or  salute  it  at  the  iqp, 
or  secure  it  from  those  on  whom  you  have  no 
claim,  or  very  frequently  from  those  on  whom  you 
have.  And  this  it  is  which  makes  me  look  to  the 
west,  and  long  to  be  again  where  it  will  be  with 
me,  and  about  me,  constantly  and  truly,  and  with 
out  interruption  or  change.  But  I  must  accom 
plish  my  season. 


152  MISCELLANIES. 

My  health  remains  the  same  ;  I  do  not  hope  for 
much  improvement  till  the  winter  has  gone.  Of 
Dawlish,  I  shall  only  say,  that  it  is  a  small  water 
ing-place,  as  Sidmouth,  my  last  residence  is,  and 
that  I  am  situated  here  pretty  much  as  I  was 
there.  We  are  still  in  the  Christmas  holidays, 
and  everybody  is  frolicking  except  myself,  to 
whom  a  frolic  would  be  one  of  the  most  serious 
things  imaginable. 

Here  follow  some  plain  cautions,  to  wit :  I.  Do 
not  affix  the  epithet  little  to  Boston  again  ;  for, 
besides  its  being  a  considerable  place  of  itself,  it 
is  more  than  the  whole  world  to  me.  II.  When 
you  seal  your  letters,  be  careful  to  introduce  some 
of  the  wax  under  the  paper  ;  for  your  last  came 
to  me  in  a  state  which  was  everything  but  open, 
and  ten  miles  more  of  land-carriage  would  have 
saved  me  the  trouble  of  breaking  the  fragment  of  a 
seal  which  was  left.  III.  Omit  not,  as  you  did  in 
your  last,  to  number  your  letters,  for  several  good 
reasons  which  you  will  easily  anticipate.  IV.  For 
give  my  boldness,  give  my  love  to  your  sisters, 
and  others,  according  to  your  discretion,  continue 
to  write  to  me  as  often  as  your  duty,  and  time, 
and  feelings  will  permit  you,  and  believe  that  as 
true  and  affectionate  a  friend  as  any  you  have,  is 
F.  W.  P.  GREENWOOD. 


JOURNAL.  153 

January  8.  I  rode  with  my  friend  to  see  the 
grounds  of  Newhouse,  a  mansion  which  had  long 
been  the  residence  of  the  ancient  family  of  the 
Oxenhams,  but  is  now,  together  with  the  grounds, 
in  a  neglected  and  almost  ruinous  condition,  and 
is  occupied  by  a  farmer  ;  the  possessor  of  the  pro 
perty  being  unfortunately  deranged  in  intellect. 
A  tradition  is  preserved  and  believed,  in  this  fa 
mily,  that  a  bird  with  a  white  breast  always  ap 
pears  just  before  the  death  of  any  of  its  members, 
and  flutters  about  the  appointed  victim.  New- 
house  is  three  miles  from  Dawlish.  There  was  a 
rapid  thaw  yesterday,  accompanied  with  rain  ; 
and  the  snow  has  all  disappeared,  excepting  a  few 
patches  which  here  and  there  lie  sheltered  under 
the  hedges,  and  hesitate  to  go. 

January  15.  We  had  resolved  on  an  excursion 
to  Torquay ;  and  this  morning  took  a  post-chaise, 
which  brought  us  by  a  circuitous  route  of  nearly 
twenty  miles,  to  our  place  of  destination.  We 
had  a  rainy  ride  of  it,  and  could,  therefore,  see 
but  little  of  the  country  ;  enough,  however,  to 
perceive  that  some  parts  of  it,  especially  on  the 
banks  of  the  river  Teign,  were  beautifully  roman 
tic.  It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  we  arrived 
at  Torquay,  and  I  kept  by  the  fireside  till  bed 
time. 

January  16.     The  sun  is  bright,  and  the  air  is 


154  MISCELLANIES. 

balm,  and  Torquay  is  the  loveliest  spot  1  have  yet 
seen.  Not  that  there  is  anything  remarkable  in 
the  town,  which  seems  to  have  been  more  rapidly 
and  slightly  built  than  either  of  the  watering- 
places  which  I  have  visited  ;  but  in  situation,  na 
ture  has  done  for  it  almost  everything  that  she 
could.  It  lies  on  the  northern  side  of  Torbay, 
and  commands  a  view  of  nearly  its  whole  expanse. 
Steep,  though  not  lofty  hills,  rise  behind  it ;  while 
the  southern  cape  of  the  bay,  Berry  Head,  bends 
round  to  shut  it  in  from  the  sea,  and  protect  it 
from  its  storms  and  winds.  The  villages  of  Peign- 
ton  and  Brixham  are  clearly  discerned  on  the  op 
posite  shore  ;  at  the  latter  of  which  William  of 
Orange  landed  on  the  5th  of  November,  1688.  The 
coast  is  extremely  picturesque  ;  being  fancifully 
broken  on  the  south,  into  caves  and  arches,  hol 
lowed  by  many  a  storm,  and  dotted  on  the  north 
by  numerous  small  islands  of  rock  which  rise  from 
the  waves,  within  short  distances  of  the  shore. 
From  the  peculiarity  of  its  situation,  sheltered  and 
land-locked  as  it  is,  Torquay  is,  without  doubt,  the 
warmest  spot  on  this  part  of  the  coast. 

January  18.  And  I  am  afraid  it  is  the  wettest, 
as  well  as  the  warmest  spot.  It  drizzled  all  day 
yesterday,  and  has  been  drizzling  all  day  to-day. 
Notwithstanding  this,  however,  we  took  our  um 
brellas,  and  walked  over  to  see  Tor  Abbey,  a 


JOURNAL.  155 

handsome  seat  belonging  to  George  Gary,  Esq., 
but  at  present  occupied  by  a  son  of  Lord  Clifford. 
It  lies  a  half  mile  only  from  our  hotel.  As  its  name 
implies,  it  was  originally  an  abbey  belonging  to 
the  Premonstratensians ;  and  the  walls,  though 
rough-cast  and  modernized,  are  the  walls  of  the 
ancient  structure,  which  was  built  in  the  reign  of 
John.  Forming  a  right  angle  with  the  south  end 
of  the  front,  is  the  old  gateway,  consisting  of  two 
circular  arches,  and  a  chamber  above  them,  which 
seems  now  to  be  a  hay  loft.  On  the  left  of  this 
gateway,  and  after  you  have  passed  it,  is  another 
remnant  of  the  abbey  —  its  barn,  which  still  serves 
as  the  barn  and  stables  to  the  present  mansion. 
It  is  a  huge  pile,  and  entirely  unadorned,  except 
by  the  ivy  which  clothes  it  luxuriantly. 

As  the  family  were  not  at  home,  we  were  per 
mitted  to  see  the  house  ;  but  there  was  very  little 
to  be  seen.  Five  or  six  pictures  by  Thompson,  a 
British  artist,  with  a  few  other  inconsiderable  ones, 
constituted  its  whole  treasure  in  that  way.  The 
Cliffords,  and  I  believe  the  Carys  also,  are  Cath 
olics.  The  chapel  was  once  the  refectory  of  the 
abbey.  It  is  neatly  fitted  up  ;  a  lamp  continually 
burning  hung  from  the  vaulted  roof,  and  on  the 
altar  was  a  tall,  gilt  crucifix. 

January  19.  It  drizzled  still ;  but  there  was  no 
sense  in  sitting  by  the  fire  doing  nothing,  and  so 


156  MISCELLANIES. 

we  performed  a  short  excursion  which  we  had 
planned  the  night  before,  to  Babbicombe  Bay,  not 
more  than  two  miles,  or  two  and  a  half  from  our 
hotel.  Our  conveyance  was  a  car,  a  vehicle  very 
common  at  the  watering-places,  but  not  at  all 
suited  to  my  ideas  of  pleasure  or  comfort.  It  is 
on  .two  wheels,  and  is  drawn  by  one  horse,  and 
so  far  is  like  a  gig  ;  but  it  is  hung  very  low  and 
near  the  horse  ;  and  these  circumstances  give  it 
a  disagreeable  jerking  motion.  In  shape  it  is  like 
a  section  of  a  coach  ;  and  within  is  accommodated 
with  two  seats,  on  which  the  passengers  sit,  facing 
each  other,  and  sideways  to  the  horse.  Its  sides 
are  closed  with  curtains,  which  in  summer  are  of 
course  drawn  open  ;  but,  as  at  this  time  it  was 
wet  and  cold,  we  were  obliged  to  keep  them 
closed,  and  thus  shut  ourselves  out  from  the  sight 
of  everything  about  us. 

A  mile  from  Torquay,  we  came  to  a  natural 
cavern,  called  Kent's  Hole,  and  alighted  to  explore 
it,  with  a  guide  who  had  followed  us  on  foot  from 
the  town.  It  is  situated  about  half  way  up  a  steep 
hill,  which  rises  from  the  road-side,  and  is  thickly 
covered  with  bushes  and  small  trees.  The  en 
trance  is  low,  so  that  we  were  obliged  to  stoop 
double  in  going  in  ;  soon  coming  to  a  more  open 
space,  however,  the  guide  struck  a  light,  and  each 
of  us  taking  a  bit  of  candle  in  our  hands,  followed 


JOURNAL.  157 

his  steps  along  the  vault,  which  was  very  irregular 
in  its  form,  and  intricate  in  its  windings.  I  often 
stopped  a  few  moments,  till  the  guide  and  my 
companion  were  at  some  distance  from  me  ;  and 
it  was  striking  to  see  their  figures  groping  among 
the  frowning  projections  of  dripping  rock,  par 
tially  illumined  by  the  feeble  rays  of  their  candles, 
while  all  else  was  utter  darkness  ;  and  as  they 
turned  their  faces  to  seek  out  the  proper  passages, 
the  same  uncertain  light  gave  such  an  expression 
to  their  features,  that  if  I  had  met  them  unawares, 
I  should  have  taken  them  for  any  rather  than  hon 
est  men.  Stalactites  and  incrustations  were  every 
where  formed  by  the  continually  dropping  water, 
but  there  were  none  of  any  grandeur  or  beauty  ; 
and,  indeed,  there  was  nothing  in  Kent's  Hole, 
that  I  saw,  to  repay  us  for  threading  its  damp  and 
dismal  mazes. 

Seated  in  our  car  again,  we  were  jerked  and 
jolted  on  for  another  mile,  till  we  saw  the  main 
object  of  our  jaunt,  the  little  bay  and  hamlet  of 
Babbicombe.  We  looked  down  upon  it  from  the 
road,  as  it  lay  all  spread  beneath  us,  and  confessed 
that  we  had  seldom  seen  so  sweet  a  valley.  The 
mouth  of  the  bay  appeared  to  be  not  more  than 
two  or  three  hundred  yards  over,  and  the  land 
arose  all  around  it  immediately  from  its  bosom. 
This  amphitheatre  was  studded  with  cottages,  both 
14 


158  MISCELLANIES. 

of  the  rich  and  the  poor,  which  seemed  to  cling  to 
the  hill-sides  like  so  many  nests  of  sea-fowl ;  some 
of  them  overhung  by  huge  rocks  which  threatened 
to  crush  them,  and  others  enveloped  in  a  shrub 
bery  of  evergreen,  through  which  we  could  but  just 
catch  a  bit  of  the  thatched  roof,  a  casement,  or  a 
chimney-top.  I  do  not  think  that  there  were  more 
than  twenty  cottages  in  all ;  and  by  far  the  greater 
part  of  these  were  the  summer  boxes  of  gentlemen 
who  had  been  attracted,  and  no  wonder,  by  the 
romantic  beauties  of  the  place. 

A  half  mile  more  brought  us  to  the  village  of 
St.  Mary's  Church  ;  which  we  visited  for  the  sake 
of  a  marble  shop,  in  which  are  exposed  for  sale 
several  ornaments  and  knick-knacks,  manufactured 
from  the  marble  which  is  dug  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  esteemed  the  best  in  Devonshire.  Here  we 
saw  very  handsome  draught  or  chequer-boards, 
books,  vases,  &c.,  executed  with  marbles  of  vari 
ous  hues  and  veins  ;  and  I  purchased  a  number  of 
square  polished  bits,  as  specimens.  There  was 
nothing  more  to  be  seen  or  done,  and  we  returned, 
by  another  road,  to  Torquay. 

January  21.  No  change  in  the  weather  ;  it 
drizzles,  drizzles,  drizzles,  as  if  it  would  never 
have  done.  While  my  friend  was  gone  to  church, 
I,  who  cannot  sit  in  one  during  the  cold  weather, 
took  another  walk  to  the  grounds  of  Tor  Abbey, 


JOURNAL.  159 

• 

and  worshipped  alone,  beneath  the  long  and  stately 
avenues  of  old  limes  which  lead  up  to  the  mansion. 
In  a  clump  of  elms  behind  the  house  I  observed  a 
large  rookery,  the  inhabitants  of  which  were  all 
collected  together,  croaking  confusedly  upon  the 
highest  branches.  By  the  help  of  a  little  imagina 
tion,  one  might  have  believed  them  the  spirits  of  the 
departed  monks,  assembled  on  the  sacred  day  of 
prayer,  to  mourn  over  the  ruin  of  their  sanctuary, 
the  dispersion  of  their  order,  and  the  extinction  of 
their  name. 

January  2-2.  Pleasant  once  more  ;  but  we  had 
fixed  on  this  day  for  our  return  to  Dawlish.  On 
the  road  we  fell  in  with  a  party  of  huntsmen. 
Some  of  the  gentlemen  were  mounted  on  noble 
animals,  who  seemed  as  eagerly  bent  on  the  pur 
suit  as  their  riders  were.  The  hedges  in  this 
country  are  particularly  high,  and  it  was  astonish 
ing  to  see  how  the  horses  cleared  them  ;  the  more 
so,  as  they  were  covered  writh  sweat  and  foam, 
and  had  evidently  been  toiling  long.  The  hunt 
was  almost  over  as  we  came  up  ;  and  just  before 
our  chaise  passed  a  small  field,  the  poor  fox  had 
been  taken  there  and  slain.  The  huntsmen  gath 
ered  in  from  all  quarters,  and  soon  formed  a  large 
group,  in  the  midst  of  which  one  of  them  held  the 
carcass  up  by  the  tail,  and  yelled  over  it  in  a  man 
ner  that  I  can  compare  to  nothing  but  the  whoop 


160  MISCELLANIES. 

i 

of  a  North  American  Indian,  while  the  dogs  joined 
in  and  swelled  the  chorus.  We  reached  Dawlish 
before  dinner. 

January  31.  A  ride  on  horseback  to  Teign- 
mouth,  where, I  had  been  several  times  before,  as 
it  is  only  three  miles  to  the  south  of  Dawlish.  It 
lies,  as  it  is  almost  needless  to  say,  at  the  mouth 
of  the  river  Teign,  and  is  divided  into  East  and 
West  Teignmouth.  On  the  beach  there  is  a  fine 
open  space,  for  riding  or  walking,  called  the  Den. 
near  which  are  the  bathing-machines,  as  this  town, 
also,  is  a  watering-place.  Its  Newfoundland  trade 
is  considerable.  A  medical  gentleman  here  told 
me  that  the  coldest  weather  in  this  part  of  the 
country  always  came  between  Christmas  and  the 
15th  of  January,  and  that  the  lowest  point  at  which 
his  thermometer  had  stood,  this  winter,  was  23°, 
This  is  all  that  I  can  say  with  respect  to  the  tem 
perature  of  this  month,  not  having  had  a  conve 
nient  place  for  my  own  instrument.  I  must 
remark,  however,  that  Dawlish  is  considerably 
warmer  than  Teignmouth,  though  they  are  but 
three  miles  apart  ;  and  that,  since  the  6th  of  the 
month,  it  has  been  quite  mild  at  Dawlish,  where 
the  crocus,  the  snowdrop,  hepatica,  and  other 
spring  flowers,  are  now  blowing  in  the  gardensr 

February  5.  It  was  a  bright  day  ;  and,  in  a 
car  which  was  a  much  better  and  easier  one  than 


JOURNAL.  161 

that  which  we  had  hired  at  Torquay,  I  left  Daw- 
lish  for  Lympston,  where  I  intended  making  a 
short  stay.  We  drove  over  a  long  tract  of  barren 
sand,  called  the  Quarry,  which  stretches  nearly 
across  the  river  Exe,  and  at  the  end  of  which  we 
and  our  car  were  received  into  a  ferry-boat,  and 
landed  at  Exmouth.  Two  miles  farther  brought 
us  to  Lympston.  Here  I  delivered  my  letters  to 
the  Rev.  Thomas  Jervis,  who  kindly  invited  me 
to  take  up  my  abode  at  his  house. 

February  7.  Lympston  is  a  small  but  very 
sweet  place,  on  the  eastern  bank  of  the  Exe  ;  shel 
tered  and  mild.  The  surrounding  scenery  is  beau 
tiful.  Looking  down  the  river,  you  have  a  view 
of  Exmouth  and  the  high  cliffs  of  the  channel ; 
on  the  opposite  bank  are  the  villages  of  Star-Cross 
and  Kenton,  with  Powderham  Castle,  the  seat  of 
Lord  Courtenay  ;  while  at  the  distance  of  four 
miles  up  the  river,  is  the  town  of  Topsham  ;  and 
four  miles  higher  still,  the  twin  towers  of  Exeter 
cathedral  are  plainly  discernible.  Exmouth, 
which  I  visited  to-day  on  horseback,  is  the  oldest 
watering-place  in  Devon,  though  the  company  of 
late  has  been  very  thin.  On  a  high  bluff  at  the 
south-west  end  of  the  town  there  is  a  row  of  hand 
some  brick  houses  ;  most  of  which  were  unoccu 
pied,  as  the  situation  is  very  much  exposed,  and 
not  fit  for  a  winter's  residence.  From  this  place, 

14* 


162  MISCELLANIES. 

which  is  called  the  Beacon,  there  is  a  fine  and 
extensive  view.  There  is  nothing  else  in  Ex- 
mouth,  however,  which  seemed  to  me  to  call  for  a 
moment's  notice. 

,    LYMPSTON,  Devon,  February  9,  1821. 

To  THE  REV.  DR.  . 

I  will  allow,  my  dear  friend  and  brother,  that 
your  expectation  of  six  letters  for  one  is  perfectly 
reasonable,  and  if  my  situation  and  spirits  had  cor 
responded  in  any  tolerable  degree  with  your  sup 
positions,  I  should  have  written  in  something  such 
a  ratio  ;  but  though  this  part  of  England  has  a 
deserved  reputation  for  mildness  of  climate,  you 
must  not  suppose  that  its  air  is  forever  balm,  or 
that  its  skies  are  always  azure  ;  and  though  I  have 
held  my  own  pretty  well  through  the  winter,  you 
must  not  imagine  that  I  have  been  entirely  free 
from  pain,  or  that  languor  and  depression  have 
forborne  to  visit  me.  This  is  the  case  with  regard 
to  the  south  of  Devonshire,  so  far  as  my  expe 
rience  goes  :  the  climate  is  so  genial,  that  persons 
in  health  generally  walk  out  through  the  winter 
without  any  surtout  or  great  coat ;  the  grass  retains 
a  continual  verdure  ;  vegetables  of  certain  kinds, 
such  as  the  cabbage,  &c.,  are  cut  fresh  from  the 
ground  in  every  month  ;  and  sheep  and  cattle  re 
main  in  the  open  fields  all  the  night  long  ;  and 
yet  there  is,  and  in  these  northern  latitudes  must 


JOURNAL.  163 

necessarily  be,  a  great  deal  of  what  you  may  call 
disagreeable  weather,  muggy,  drizzly,  wet,  dark, 
uncomfortable  weather  ;  and  in  such  weather  as 
this,  there  can  be,  to  an  invalid  especially,  but  little 
enjoyment  or  elasticity  of  spirit.  Then  you  must 
consider  that  as  the  place  where  I  am  at  present  lies 
nearly  ten  degrees  to  the  north  of  Boston,  the  win 
ter  days  must  be  shorter  than  they  are  even  in  our 
native  town  ;  as  the  summer  days  will  be  longer. 
In  the  middle  of  December  the  sun  rises  not  till 
some  minutes  past  eight  o'clock,  and  sets  at  about 
fifty  minutes  past  three  in  the  afternoon.  Now  I 
want  nearly  the  whole  of  this  day  for  meals  and 
exercise,  and  the  evening  for  rest  and  reading. 
Thus  it  happens,  that,  notwithstanding  I  am  mas 
ter  of  my  whole  time,  I  have  written  but  very  lit 
tle,  even  to  my  parents.  After  all,  however,  I 
will  freely  confess  that  I  might  and  ought  to  have 
written  to  you  much  oftener  than  I  have,  and  am 
ashamed  of  myself  for  my  negligence.  Forgive 
me. 

Your  first  letter  has  brightened  many  a  weary 
hour  for  me.  It  is  so  full  of  your  happy  vein,  so 
just  like  yourself,  in  short,  that  I  have  kept  it  con 
tinually  about  me,  and  recurred  to  it  when  "  my 
soul  was  dark,"  with  the  same  feeling  of  assured 
relief  as  used  to  accompany  your  morning  calls, 
when  you  and  I  could  communicate  without  hav- 


164  MISCELLANIES. 

ing  recourse  to  the  slow  medium  of  pen,  ink  and 
paper. 

I  am  not  sorry  to  hear  that  the  liberals  and  rea 
son  ables  are  so  earnestly  driving  the  quill,  because 
discussion  will  do  no  harm  to  truth  ;  but  you  know 
that  I  like  the  pugilistic  temper  as  little  as  you  do, 
and  that  I  am  as  much  teazed  as  yourself  by 
the  disposition,  manifested  by  some,  to  blow  the 
trumpet  in  Sion  so  long,  and  loud,  and  bloodily, 
that  the  peaceable  dwellers  therein  shall  have 
never  a  moment  of  rest,  and  of  accusing  all  who 
will  not  go  up  to  Ramoth  Gilead  to  battle,  of  dis 
affection  to  the  true  cause.  We  both  think  that  it 
is  exceedingly  troublesome  to  be  perpetually  cased 
in  armor  ;  to  breakfast,  dine,  sup  and  sleep  with 
harness  on  the  back  ;  and  not  only  so,  but  to 
mount  the  steed,  set  the  spear  in  rest,  and  sally 
forth  to  the  lists,  for  the  pleasure  of  breaking 
lances  or  noddles  with  every  champion  who  dares 
take  up  the  gauntlet  against  us.  And  we  both 
have  an  idea,  that  by  minding  our  official  and  do 
mestic  duties  in  a  quiet  way,  and  teaching  others, 
as  well  as  we  can,  to  mind  theirs — -not  refusing, 
the  while,  to  lend  a  hand,  for  exercise  sake,  to  a 
righteous  quarrel,  when  we  see  occasion  —  we 
may  chance  to  do  almost  as  much  good,  and  be 
almost  as  good  sort  of  folk,  as  if  we  went  through 
life  with  a  doubled  fist. 


JOURNAL.  165 

And  so  you  have  named  your  second  born 
by  the  name  of  your  absent  friend  ?  Heaven 
bless  the  babe,  and  give  it  health  and  strength, 
virtue  and  wisdom  —  its  father's  mind  and  its 
mother's  gentleness.  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
grateful  I  feel  for  this  most  affectionate  and 
touching  compliment.  I  shall  look  on  the  little 
one  as  almost  my  own  ;  and  if  I  ever  see  home 
again,  one  of  my  first  duties  shall  be  to  come  and 

kiss  and  bless  it.  I  hope  that  Mrs. will  be 

perfectly  recovered  long  before  my  letter  reaches 
you  ;  this  part  of  which  I  would  have  her  consider 
as  addressed  equally  to  herself  and  you  ;  for  so 
important  a  matter  as  naming  a  son  could  not 
have  been  determined  on  but  by  a  mutual  council. 

To  bring  you  back  to  Devonshire  —  you  will 
have  probably  heard  that  I  have  been  to  Dawlish 
and  Torquay,  two  small  watering-places  on  the 
coast.  Last  Monday  I  came  here,  and  shall  go 
away  next  Tuesday.  Lympston  is  not  a  water 
ing-place,  but  a  little  village,  to  which  a  few  inva 
lids  resort  wholly  for  the  sake  of  climate.  It 
is  situated  on  the  river  Exe,  about  two  miles  from 
its  mouth  ;  a  pleasant,  retired  and  sheltered  spot. 
There  has  been  so  little  change  in  my  health  from 
month  to  month,  that  I  have  nothing  at  all  to  say- 
on  that  subject,  but  refer  you  to  my  mother.  Re 
ceive  this  long  epistle  as  some  atonement  for  not 


166  MISCELLANIES. 

having  written  before,  and  cherish  me  as  your 
loving  friend. 

FRANCIS  W.  P.  GREENWOOD. 

February  13.  I  left  Lympston  with  regret,  for 
I  had  passed  a  happy  week  there.  The  friends 
whose  society  was  so  pleasant  to  me  were  princi 
pally  members  of  a  small  Unitarian  congregation, 
which  has  been  for  some  time  established  here. 
It  has  lately  met  with  the  misfortune  of  losing  its 
minister,  the  Rev.  John  Jervis,  brother  of  the  gen 
tleman  with  whom  I  have  been  residing.  A  car 
brought  me  in  time  for  dinner  to  my  old  quarters 
at  Sidmouth. 

February  28.  The  last  day  of  winter  —  that  is 
to  say,  of  the  nominal  winter,  the  almanac  winter, 
which  every  one  knows  is  a  very  different  thing 
from  the  real  winter,  the  season  of  clouds,  and 
storms,  and  ice,  and  hoar-frost.  The  weather  in 
this  month  has  been  very  variable.  From  the  1st 
to  the  12th,  it  was  mild  and  fine,  the  sky  clear 
nearly  the  whole  time  ;  it  then  changed,  and  be 
came  cloudy,  and  gloomy,  and  cold.  From  the 
16th  to  the  end  of  the  month,  I  observed  the  ther 
mometer  at  noon,  and  found  the  lowest  degree  to 
have  been  33°,  on  the  18th,  and  the  highest  47°,  on 
the  2ist  and  28th.  There  has  been  very  little  rain 
through  the  month. 


JOURNAL.  167 

March  7.  I  took  my  last  leave  of  Sidmouth 
this  morning,  and  came,  for  the  third  time,  to  Ex 
eter,  where  the  hospitality  of  my  good  friend,  Mr. 
Hincks,  again  provided  me  with  a  bed  in  his 
house,  and  a  plate  at  his  table. 

March  so.  I  had  been  warned  that  March  was 
the  worst  month  in  the  year  ;  and  so,  indeed,  it 
has  turned  out.  The  weather  has  been  dismal ; 
not  so  cold  as  it  was  at  Christmas  time,  but  more 
insidious  and  pernicious.  Under  a  bright  sun  and 
a  clear  sky,  it  would  make  its  most  fatal  attacks  ; 
would  "  smile  and  smile,  and  be  a  villain."  I 
have  hardly  been  out  at  all.  On  the  14th,  I  was 
visited  with  a  severe  cold,  which  did  not  leave  me 
till  the  22d,  and  then  left  me  disposed  to  be  pru 
dent.  Thinking  myself,  however,  sufficiently  re 
covered,  and  the  season  sufficiently  advanced,  for 
travelling,  I  am  going  to  resume  my  journey  ings, 
and  take  my  departure  from  Devonshire  to-mor 
row  morning.  I  have  grown  quite  tired  of  re 
maining  so  long  inactive,  and  gladly  set  myself  in 
motion  again  ;  like  a  vessel,  that,  after  having 
been  wind-bound  and  becalmed,  spreads  her  sails 
and  courts  the  favoring  breeze,  till  every  rag  of 
canvass  swells  out  with  exultation.  And  yet  I 
would  leave  Devon  on  good  terms  :  for,  on  the 
whole,  I  have  not  been  disappointed  in  the  ex 
pectations  I  had  formed  of  it.  I  was  told  that  its 


168  MISCELLANIES. 

climate  was  mild,  and  so  it  certainly  is ;  the  myr 
tle  grows  luxuriantly  against  the  sides  of  the  cot 
tages,  and  remains  green  through  the  winter  ;  the 
grass  retains  its  verdure,  and  daisies  blossom  in 
every  month  ;  sheep  and  cattle  are  left  in  the  open 
fields  through  the  coldest  nights  ;  crocuses  and 
snowdrops  begin  to  blow  in  the  gardens  as  early 
as  the  end  of  January.  I  have  seen  peas  and 
beans  two  inches  high,  in  the  open  ground,  on  the 
8th  of  February,  and  peaches,  nectarines  and  ap 
ricots  in  blossom  on  the  10th  of  March  ;  and  this 
is  enough  to  prove  that  the  climate  of  the  south  of 
Devonshire  is  mild.  It  has  its  cold  winds  and  its 
storms,  but  how  could  it  be  otherwise  in  the  fiftieth 
degree  of  north  latitude  ? 

I  wish  that  I  could  say  as  much  in  favor  of  the 
inhabitants,  as  I  can  of  the  climate.  Not  but  that 
they  are  a  good  sort  of  folks  enough  ;  but  they, 
that  is,  the  lower  orders,  are  intolerably  lazy, 
shiftless  and  dirty.  Now,  what  is  the  great  ben 
efit  of  a  prevailing  mild  climate,  when  the  people 
seem  as  if  they  were  determined  to  counteract  its 
influence  by  every  means  in  their  power  ?  What 
is  the  use  of  spending  a  winter  in  one  of  these 
sheltered  spots,  when  you  must  take  up  your 
abode  in  a  house  of  mere  lath  and  plaster,  and 
live  with  people  who  never  shut  a  door  behind 
them,  or  close  a  window  properly,  and  sit  in  a 


JOURNAL*  169 

room  so  yawning,  as  it  were,  with  cracks  and 
crevices,  that  it  appears  to  be  very  little  matter 
whether  the  doors  and  windows  are  shut  or  open  ? 
An  invalid  and  a  stranger  cannot  bear  this.  He 
is  quite  as  well  off,  if  not  better,  at  home,  in  a 
comfortable  house,  which,  in  the  depth  of  winter, 
enjoys  the  temperature  of  an  artificial  summer, 
and  among  friends  who  are  all  attention  and  care 
fulness.  Others  may  be  more  fortunate  in  their 
places  of  residence  than  I  was,  and  may  lodge  in 
tight  houses,  and  with  people  who  always  shut 
their  doors.  I  hope  they  may. 

March  31.  At  eight  o'clock  precisely,  I  had 
taken  my  seat  in  the  stage-coach,  and  a  minute 
after  was  on  my  way  to  the  north.  We  rode 
through  Collumpton  to  Wellington,  the  first  town 
we  came  to  in  Somersetshire,  and  then  on  to 
Taunton.  Here  I  had  intended  to  stay  the  night ; 
but  the  assizes  had  just  commenced,  the  inns  were 
crowded,  and  the  whole  town  was  in  a  bustle  ; 
and,  as  I  hate  a  bustle,  I  determined  to  move  a 
little  farther  on.  While  the  coach  and  horses 
were  changed,  however,  I  seized  the  opportu 
nity  of  viewing  the  beautiful  tower  of  St.  Mary's 
church,  which  is  acknowledged  to  be  one  of  the 
richest  and  most  elegant  in  the  kingdom.  I  had 
never  seen  one  so  fine.  Resuming  my  seat,  I 
went  on  to  Bridgewater,  twelve  miles  farther,  and 
15 


170  MISCELLANIES. 

there  stopped.  One  of  my  fellow-passengers  had 

told  me  that Castle,  the  seat  of  Lord , 

was  well  worth  my  seeing.  I  found  that  it  was 
only  four  miles  from  Bridgewater  ;  so,  having  be 
spoke  my  dinner,  I  ordered  a  chaise,  and  was  soon 
there. 

I  was  disappointed.  The  mansion  stands,  to 
be  sure,  in  a  fine  commanding  situation,  but  no 
thing  can  be  gloomier  or  more  prison-like  than  its 
appearance.  It  is  built  in  the  old  castle  style  ; 
not  only  with  tower  and  turret,  gateway  and  court 
yard,  but  with  moat,  draw-bridge,  and  portcullis. 
Its  form  is  a  quadrangle,  inclosing  a  spacious 
court,  in  other  words,  a  hollow  square  ;  the  ma 
terials  are  unhewn  and  irregular  stones  and  brick. 
Within,  there  was  nothing  worth  looking  at,  but 
some  Gobelin  tapestry,  with  which  many  of  the 
rooms  were  hung.  The  pictures  were  chiefly 
family  portraits ;  which,  as  well  as  everything  else 
that  could  suffer,  were  suffering  greatly  from  the 
long  absence  of  the  present  earl,  who  has  not  been 
here  for  many  years  ;  why,  I  could  not  learn. 
The  castle  was  built  by  his  father.  No  stables  or 
barns  are  to  be  seen  ;  for  the  whim  of  their  con 
triver  has  placed  them  under  ground,  and  light  is 
admitted  through  iron  grates,  which  you  observe 
here  and  there  as  you  walk  along. 

A  few  paces  only  from  the  castle,  is  the  village 


JOURNAL.  171 

church 3  small  and  old  ;  a  part  of  it  being  consid 
erably  more  ancient  than  the  rest,  as  is  evinced 
by  the  architecture  of  the  south  doorway,  which 
is  a  Norman  arch,  with  a  finely  raised  zigzag 
moulding.  The  churchyard  was  just  such  a  one 
as,  had  it  been  nearer  home,  I  should  have  liked 
to  have  reposed  in.  A  dark-boughed  yew,  which 
must  have  seen  more  than  one  century,  threw  its 
thick  shade  over  nearly  one  half  of  it,  and  it  was 
neatly  fenced  in  by  a  hedge  of  laurestinus  and 
other  evergreen  shrubs,  interspersed  with  the  ho 
neysuckle  and  rose. 

Having  returned  to  Bridgewater  and  dined,  I 
walked  for  an  hour  about  the  town,  which  is  of 
some  importance,  containing  about  five  thousand 
inhabitants.  The  river  Parret  runs  through  it, 
and  is  crossed  by  a  handsome  iron  bridge.  Ad 
miral  Robert  Blake  was  born  in  this  town,  in 

1599. 

April  i.  The  mail  passed  through  at  ten 
o'clock.  I  took  a  seat  in  it,  and  reached  Glaston- 
bury  at  twelve.  Who  has  not  heard  of  Glaston- 
bury  Abbey,  whose  buildings  were  so  magnificent, 
whose  domains  were  so  wide,  whose  revenues 
were  so  vast,  whose  abbots  were  so  princely  ? 
And  who  has  not  heard  of  the  Glastonbury  thorn, 
which  was  green  while  other  plants  were  bare, 
and  put  forth  its  white  blossoms  on  the  birthday 


172 


MISCELLANIES, 


of  Mary's  son,  to  the  praise  of  the  church,  and  the 
edification  of  believers  ?  As  our  coach  turned  the 
brow  of  a  hill,  the  scene  of  these  wonders,  and 
the  vestiges  of  all  this  grandeur  opened  at  once 
upon  me,  and  a  most  impressive  view  it  was. 
The  gray  masses  of  ruin  immediately  below  us, 
together  with  the  two  church  towers  of  the  town, 
and  the  antique  appearance  of  its  buildings,  formed 
one  of  the  most  striking  pictures  I  ever  beheld. 

The  coach  stopped  at  the  George  Inn,  which, 
in  the  days  of  its  power  and  hospitality,  belonged 
to  the  abbey,  and  was  an  inn  for  the  entertain 
ment  of  pilgrims.  It  was  flanked  with  turrets, 
adorned  with  niches  and  statues,  and  the  modern 
sign  was  supported  by  a  curiously  carved  stone 
pillar,  which  once  bore  the  welcome  promise  of 
refreshment  and  rest  to  those  who  came  recom 
mended,  not  by  the  length  of  their  purses,  but  "  by 
their  cockle  hat  and  stafFe,  and  by  their  sandal 
shoone."  Notwithstanding  these  potent  attrac 
tions,  however,  as  I  had  been  recommended  to 
the  White  Hart,  as  the  best  inn  in  the  town,  I  or 
dered  my  baggage  across  the  street,  and  took  up 
my  quarters  there.  I  soon  found  out  by  the  din 
ner  that  was  served  up,  and  by  the  manners  of 
the  servants,  that  I  was  in  a  comfortable  situation  \ 
and  where  I  had  designed  to  tarry  for  a  day  or 
two,  this  was  a  great  matter.  The  White  Hart  had 


JOURNAL. 


173 


another  recommendation  also.  From  its  garden, 
which  was  sheltered  and  warm,  there  was  an  ex 
cellent  view  of  the  ruins,  while  through  it  was  the 
only  passage  to  them  ;  and  in  it  there  grew  a  thorn 
which  was  taken  from  the  old  one,  and  which 
possessed  the  singular  property  of  its  parent,  of 
flowering  at  Christmas  time.  Of  the  truth  of  this 
fact,  in  whatever  way  it  may  be  accounted  for, 
there  can  be  no  manner  of  doubt.  One  of  my 
Devonshire  friends,  who  was  in  Glastonbury  a 
day  or  two  after  Christmas,  told  me  he  saw  this 
thorn  in  full  blossom  ;  many  others  have  told  me 
the  same ;  the  towns-people  are  annually  wit 
nesses  of  it,  and  I  myself  saw  the  tree  in  full  leaf, 
and  covered  with  withered  flowers,  at  a  season 
when  other  hawthorns  were  j  ust  beginning  to  burst 
their  buds.  The  original  tree,  which  had  attained 
an  extraordinary  size,  was  torn  up  in  Cromwell's 
time,  as  a  rag  of  popery.  The  one  of  which  I 
have  been  speaking,  has  already  attained  an  un 
common  growth  for  a  hawthorn,  being  ten  or 
twelve  feet  high,  and  as  thick  in  the  stem  as  a 
man's  leg.  There  is  still  a  larger  one  near  St. 
John's  church,  in  the  neighborhood. 

The  Catholic  legend  concerning  the  old   tree 

was,  that  St.  Joseph  of  Arimathea,  who,  they  say, 

was  sent  by  the  apostles  to  convert  the  Britons, 

and  who  is  considered  as  the  founder  of  the  reli- 

15* 


174  MISCELLANIES. 

gious  community  so  long  existing  at  Glastonbury, 
having  reached  in  his  journey  the  summit  of  a  hill 
hard  by,  thrust  his  staff  into  the  ground,  and  ex 
claimed  to  his  companions,  "  We  are  weary  all." 
The  staff  took  root,  grew,  and  blossomed  twice  in 
the  year,  once  at  Christmas,  and  once  at  the 
usual  time  ;  and  the  hill  still  continues  to  be  called 
"Weary-all"  Hill.  We  may  gather  from  this 
story,  at  least,  that  St.  Joseph  spoke  remarkably 
good  English,  considering  he  had  but  just  arrived 
in  the  island.  Another  account  is,  that  the  first  of 
these  holy  thorns  being  imported  from  a  warm 
country,  in  which  the  climate  was  three  or  four 
months  in  advance  of  that  of  England,  continued 
from  habit  and  affection,  to  blow  at  its  former 
early  season,  and  yet  out  of  respect  to  the  country 
which  had  adopted  it,  civilly  put  forth  its  flowers 
once  more,  at  the  same  time  with  its  fellow  thorns  ; 
and  that  all  its  young  shoots  and  slips  inherited 
the  custom  ex  traduce  from  their  parent. 

With  regard  to  the  ruins,  they  consist  of  three 
principal  divisions  —  St.  Joseph's  chapel,  the  Ab 
bey  church,  and  the  kitchen.  St.  Joseph's  cha 
pel  forms  the  southern  boundary  of  the  garden  of 
my  inn.  It  is  the  most  ancient  structure  of  the 
whole,  being  built  in  the  Norman  style,  with  cir 
cular  arches,  zigzag  mouldings,  and  rich  cornices. 
A-t  each  angle  is  a  small  turret  of  elegant  form, 


JOURNAL.  175 

highly  ornamented  with  rows  of  intersecting 
arches.  Passing  from  the  garden,  through  the 
rich  northern  doorway  and  the  interior  of  the 
chapel,  we  come  out  into  a  field,  in  the  midst  of 
which  are  the  remains  of  the  church.  The  prin 
cipal  feature  of  this  part  of  the  ruin  is  formed  by 
the  twin  pillars  of  one  of  the  arches  which  sup 
ported  the  central  tower  ;  they  are  lofty,  and  their 
effect  is  very  striking.  In  another  field,  a  short 
distance  to  the  south,  stands  the  abbey  kitchen  ; 
not  so  old  as  the  other  buildings,  but  of  great  in 
terest,  from  its  being  unique  and  quite  entire.  Its 
form  for  the  first  twenty  feet  is  a  square,  on  which 
is  raised  an  octagonal  pyramid  of  about  thirty  feet 
more  ;  and  the  whole  is  crowned  with  a  handsome 
lantern,  likewise  of  eight  sides,  and  pierced  with 
holes  to  give  passage  to  the  steams,  &c.,  of  the 
kitchen.  The  interior  is  one  spacious  vault, 
and  the  whole  is  composed  of  stone.  In  each 
corner  is  an  immense  fireplace ;  but  it  is  long, 
very  long,  since  the  piled  logs  blazed  there,  and 
the  caldrons  boiled,  and  the  huge  joints  turned 
round  ;  the  merry  smoke  no  longer  curls  in  the 
chimney,  and  the  hearth-stone  is  cold. 

The  poor  man  who  built  this  fire-proof  kitchen, 
was  the  last  whose  table  it  ever  supplied.  It  is 
said  to  have  been  erected  by  Abbot  Richard 
Whiting,  soon  after  his  election,  which  took  place 


176  MISCELLANIES. 

in  the  year  1524.  He  was  the  sixtieth  Abbot  of 
Glastonbury,  and  the  last ;  for  it  was  during  his 
abbacy  that  the  dissolution  of  monasteries  was 
effected  by  Henry  VIII.  It  was  hard  for  the  su 
perior  of  the  first  religious  establishment  in  Eng 
land  to  yield  up  honor,  dignity  and  revenue  to  the 
fell  swoop  of  the  ruthless  spoiler,  and  it  was  hard 
for  a  good  Catholic  to  acknowledge  the  spiritual 
supremacy  of  a  mere  temporal  prince.  Richard 
Whiting  refused  to  do  either  ;  he  was  arrested 
and  tried  for  high  treason,  at  Wells,  and  was  ac 
quitted.  But  that  was  of  little  consequence  to  the 
rapacious  and  despotic  Henry  ;  the  venerable  ab 
bot  was  again  seized,  dragged  Urthe  highest  hill 
in  the  vicinity,  and  there  hung  between  two  of  his 
monks,  on  the  14th  of  November,  1539.  The  in 
come  of  the  abbey,  which  then  amounted  to  some 
thing  over  three  thousand  pounds  per  annum,  was 
sequestrated,  and  the  buildings  abandoned  to  neg 
lect  and  ruin.  Many  houses  have  been  reared 
in  the  town  from  the  spoils  ;  one  in  particular, 
called  the  Abbey-house,  which  is  lavishly  deco 
rated  with  coats  of  arms,  corbel  heads,  &c.  But 
a  stop  has  been  put  to  this  for  some  time,  and  the 
ruins  are  well  enclosed  and  preserved.  The 
kitchen,  with  the  field  on  which  it  stands,  is  the 
property  of  a  Bristol  wine  merchant,  and  the  other 
remains,  with  the  ground  about  them,  belong  to  a 


JOURNAL.  177 

farmer  of  Glastonbury,  who  turns  out  his  cows  to 
graze  among  the  clustered  shafts  and  broken 
arches.  It  is  not,  however,  from  brutes  that  they 
have  anything  to  fear. 

A  verie  pithie  and  mournfull  Ballate 

Of  Glassenbury  Abbey,  and  the  Abbott  and  Freres  thereof: 

Right  profitable  unto  alle  godlie  soules  that  in  these 

backslidinge  tymes  doe  nathelesse  cease  not 

to  honour  Scte  Joseph  and  our  Lady. 


They  hangid  the  Abbott  on  Michael's  hille, 
And  they  seized  on  his  church  and  lande  ; 

For  so  it  was  stoute  kynge  Harry's  wille, 
Whose  wille  there  mote  none  withstande. 

They  smote  on  the  walles  of  the  Abbey  fayre, 
And  spoyled  its  high  roofe  of  stone  ; 

And  windowe,  and  tower,  and  winding  staire, 
They  pullid  down  one  by  one. 

Its  tenante  now  is  the  boding  crowe, 

In  stedde  of  the  hooded  friar  ; 
On  its  ruinnes  the  ivy  and  walle-floure  growe, 

The  feme  and  the  white-blossomed  briar. 

Its  altar  the  pilgrim  he  seeketh  no  more 

From  the  lande  of  another  sunne, 
For  Masse,  and  Prayer,  and  Confessioun  are  ower, 

And  Mattines  and  Vespers  are  done. 

And  the  brethren,  so  holie,  are  scattered  abroad, 

To  labour,  to  begge,  and  to  die  ; 
Wilhouten  a  frende  —  but  their  pittying  Lord, 

And  our  Ladie  that  sitteth  on  high. 


178  MISCELLANIES. 

But  laughe  not,  proude  Harry,  nor  joie  in  thy  strengthe, 

For  thou,  too,  in  Ruinnes  shall  falle, 
And  the  pitilesse  Spoyler  shalle  finde  thee  at  lengthe, 

Despight  of  thy  stronge  pallace  walle. 

And  ruinne  to  thee  shalle  be  darknesse  and  shame, 

Foulle  wormes,  crumbling  bones,  and  coulde  clay ; 
While  the  Abbey,  though  ruinned,  shalle  flourishe  in  fame, 
And  looke  fayre  in  the  swete  light  of  daie. 

The  Stranger  from  farre  distante  shoares  shall  come  here, 

Its  beauteouse  relickes  to  see, 
And  shall  give  to  its  glories  a  sighe  and  a  teare, 

And  a  curse,  cruelle  monarcke,  to  thee. 

[These  verses  were  written  by  Dr,  Greenwood.] 

As  an  accompaniment  to  the  abbey  ruins,  and, 
in  fact,  to  every  view  for  many  miles  about  the 
town,  the  beholder  is  presented  with  a  prospect  of 
St.  Michael's  Tower,  built  on  the  very  top  of  the 
high  and  steep  hill  which  I  have  before  mentioned. 
The  church  to  which  it  belonged,  and  which  was 
dedicated  to  St.  Michael,  has  fallen  down.  It 
was  erected  in  the  place  of  a  still  more  ancient 
one,  which  was  totally  destroyed  by  an  earthquake 
in  the  year  1276. 

The  town  of  Glastonbury  is  divided  into  two 
parishes,  St.  Benedict's  and  St.  John's,  each  of 
which  has  its  church.  Of  these,  St.  John's  is  much 
the  handsomest  and  largest.  It  contains  several 
curious  monuments,  which  were  brought  from 


JOURNAL.  179 

the  Abbey  ;  and  the  old  sexton  showed  me  a 
burying  cloth  of  red  velvet  richly  embroidered 
with  gold,  but  all  in  tatters,  which  he  said  had 
also  belonged  to  that  establishment,  and  which 
had  been  preserved  in  the  church,  time  out  of 
mind.  <:My  father  died  sexton  of  this  church," 
said  the  man  of  graves,  "  when  he  was  between 
ninety  and  one  hundred  years  old,  and  he  remem 
bered  nothing  about  it."  On  a  reading-desk  in 
the  chancel  I  observed  a  black  letter  copy  of  Fox's 
Book  of  Martyrs,  lying  open,  much  thumbed  and 
worn.  It  was  the  custom  in  Queen  Elizabeth's 
reign,  to  place  this  book  in  churches,  for  the  gen 
eral  reading  of  the  parishioners,  to  keep  them  in 
mind  of  the  cruelties  of  the  preceding  reign,  and 
to  nourish  their  hatred  of  popery  ;  indeed,  this 
was  done  by  command  of  the  queen.  An  inscrip 
tion  on  a  grave-stone  in  the  church-yard,  I  thought 
curious  enough  to  copy.  "  Here  lyeth  ye  body 
of  William,  the  only  son  of  Thomas  Ayres  and 
Jane  his  wife,  who  departed  this  life  July  the  14th, 
1739,  Aged  16  years. 

The  Abbey  walls  on  Glaston's  earth 
I  climb'd  for  birds,  and  got  my  death  ; 
My  bones  I  broke,  my  time  was  spent, 
And  left  my  friends  in  discontent." 

After  these  followed  the  well-known  and  well- 


180  MISCELLANIES. 

worn  lines.  "  Mourn  not  for  me  my  parents  dear," 
&c. 

April  4.  I  have  stayed  thus  long  in  Glaston- 
bury,  because  I  wished  to  try  my  hand  at  sketch 
ing  ;  and  the  weather  has  been  such  that  I  have 
not  been  able,  till  to-day,  to  remain  in  the  open 
air  with  any  comfort.  It  proving  quite  rnild  this 
morning,  I  finished  one  view,  and,  taking  the  mail 
at  noon,  came  to  Wells,  five  miles  only  from  Glas- 
tonbury.  The  name  of  this  city  is  derived  from  one 
or  two  springs  which  burst  up  near  the  bishop's 
palace.  It  is  pleasantly  situated  at  the  foot  of  the 
Mendip  Hills,  and  is  made  extremely  interesting 
to  the  stranger,  not  only  by  its  fine  cathedral,  but 
by  many  ancient  buildings  which  are  connected 
with  it,  and  several  gates  in  excellent  preservation. 
The  cathedral  is  certainly  the  most  beautiful  which 
I  have  yet  visited.  I  thought  that  the  west  front 
of  Exeter  cathedral  was  as  rich  as  it  could  be,  but 

•w  ' 

it  is  plainness  and  poverty  when  compared  to  that 
of  Wells.  The  images  of  the  former  are  confined 
to  a  screen  which  projects  from  the  front,  and 
does  not  reach  to  half  its  height ;  they  are,  besides, 
very  black  and  dingy  ;  but  those  of  the  latter  are 
set  with  a  prodigal  hand  in  every  part  of  the  west 
end  ;  even  the  buttresses  are  full  of  them,  and 
they  are  delightfully  white  and  clean,  although 
their  worn  and  jagged  outline  is  proof  of  their 


JOURNAL.  181 

great  antiquity.  Some  of  the  figures  surprised  me 
by  their  excellent  workmanship,  in  which  they 
were  far  superior  to  any  I  had  before  seen,  of  the 
same  age,  and  in  a  similar  situation.  One  female, 
in  particular,  with  a  crown  on  her  head,  would  by 
no  means  have  disgraced  the  chisel  of  a  Chantry. 
This  figure,  as  well  as  several  others  which  were 
in  sheltered  positions,  was  in  remarkably  good 
preservation.  The  west  front  of  the  cathedral  is 
flanked  by  two  towers,  each  one  hundred  and 
thirty  feet  in  height ;  and  there  is  a  larger  one 
over  the  intersection  of  the  nave  and  transepts, 
whose  height  is  one  hundred  and  sixty  feet.  I 
contented  myself  with  the  exterior,  to-day,  as  well 
I  might ;  and,  reserving  the  inside  for  another  op 
portunity,  continued  my  walk  through  the  town. 
East  of  the  cathedral  stands  the  bishop's  palace. 
But  you  would  take  it  for  a  feudal  baron's  castle. 
The  dwellings  and  offices  are  surrounded  by  a 
high  and  massy  wall,  and  the  wall  is  girdled  by  a 
deep  and  broad  moat,  which  is  still  kept  full  of 
water  by  the  springs  or  wells  which  give  the  city 
its  name.  What  must  those  times  have  been 
which  could  compel  a  Christian  bishop,  a  teacher 
of  religion,  and  a  shepherd  of  souls,  to  dig  his 
moat,  and  hang  his  drawbridge,  and  build  his  em 
battled  wall  ?  or  what,  perhaps,  I  should  rather 
say,  must  have  been  the  bishop,  who,  in  any  times, 

16 


182  MISCELLANIES. 

could  so  far  forget  the  nature  of  his  office,  and  be 
so  ignorant  of  the  influence  and  power,  under  al 
most  any  circumstances,  of  a  virtuous  character, 
and  a  mild  and  peaceable  demeanor,  as  to  shut 
himself  up  in  this  way,  and  adopt  such  measures 
as  these  for  defence  or  security  ? 

April  5.  In  my  yesterday's  perambulations,  I 
had  met,  by  chance,  a  gentleman,  who,  with  his 
wife,  had  been  rny  stage-companion  from  Exeter 
to  Bridge  water.  As,  during  our  ride,  I  had  made 
myself  known  as  an  American,  and  he  had  him 
self  been  in  America,  we  became  considerably 
acquainted,  and  he  now  invited  me  out  to  see  him, 
telling  me  that  he  lived  but  a  few  steps  from  "Wo- 
key  Hole,  a  famous  cavern  about  a  mile  and  a 
half  to  the  north-west  of  Wells,  where,  if  I  had 
the  curiosity  to  see  the  place,  he  would  be  happy 
to  accompany  me.  I  accepted  his  polite  offer 
with  much  pleasure,  and  between  nine  and  ten 
o'clock  this  morning  set  off  on  foot,  as  the  day 
was  fine,  and  the  distance  quite  within  my  power 
of  accomplishment,  although  I  never  had  any  rea 
son  to  boast,  and  now  still  less  than  ever,  of  my 
pedestrian  abilities.  At  the  end  of  a  small  village 
or  knot  of  cottages,  which,  from  its  neighborhood 
to  the  cavern,  is  called  Wokey  Hole,  I  came  to 
the  house  of  Mr.  G. ;  a  pretty  place,  retired  from 
the  road,  and  surrounded  with  shrubs  and  trees. 


JOURNAL.  183 

After  resting  an  hour  and  eating  a  slice  of  excel 
lent  cold  roast  beef,  we  set  off  for  Wokey  Hole. 
The  approach  and  entrance  are  highly  roman 
tic.  The  path  winds  on  the  edge  of  a  cliff,  at 
whose  base  a  stream  is  brawling,  which  proceeds 
from  one  of  the  mouths  of  the  cavern  ;  and  the 
arched  passage  by  which  you  enter  is  pierced 
about  midway  up  the  perpendicular  face  of  a  pre 
cipice,  which  is  nearly  a  hundred  feet  in  height. 
Our  guide,  a  stout  country  girl,  furnishing  each  of 
us  with  a  lighted  candle,  led  the  way  into  the  cave. 
A  few  yards  from  its  mouth,  a  great  number  of 
bats  were  hanging  from  the  vaulted  roof;  and  one 
of  them,  who  had  incautiously  suspended  himself 
within  our  reach,  we  dislodged  from  his  quarters. 
On  holding  a  candle  near  enough  to  singe  his  hair, 
he  showed  his  teeth  and  slowly  unfolded  his  wings, 
but  only  for  a  moment  —  he  had  not  yet  finished 
his  winter's  sleep,  and  was  not  to  be  roused.  We 
passed  through  several  grand  apartments,  the  tops 
of  which  I  could  hardly  discern  with  the  help  of 
all  our  light,  and  whose  extent  was  in  proportion 
to  their  loftiness,  and  came  at  last  to  one  which 
forbade  our  farther  progress.  At  its  extremity, 
the  stream,  of  which  I  have  spoken,  issued  from  a 
low-browed  arch,  not  more  than  two  feet  high  in 
its  centre  from  the  water's  edge.  Mr.  G.  told  me 
that  he  once  brought  a  boat  here,  and,  lying  down 


184  MISCELLANIES. 

in  it,  caused  himself  to  be  pushed  through  this 
opening.  He  soon  came  out  into  an  apartment  as 
spacious  as  any  we  had  seen,  about  which  he  pad 
dled  to  discover,  if  possible,  another  passage,  but 
could  find  none  ;  the  water  appeared  to  rise  up 
from  the  bottom.  This  cavern  is  certainly  worth 
visiting. 

[NOTE.  —  The  Journal  ends  here,  somewhat  abruptly.  No  re 
cord,  with  the  exception  of  a  few  slight  notes,  appears  to  have  been 
kept  after  this  date.  The  following  letter,  it  will  be  perceived,  waa 
written  a  short  time  after.] 

BOSTON,  Lincolnshire,  June  29,  1821. 
MY  DEAR  PARENTS, 

It  is  curious  that  I  should  now  be  writing  to 
you  from  the  town,  after  which  our  own  was 
named  ;  it  is  rather  an  out-of-the-way  place  for  a 
traveller,  but  as  I  was  within  thirty  miles  of  it,  I 
thought  that  I  might  as  well  drop  down  the  little 
river  Witham,  on  which  it  is  situated,  and  take  a 
look  at  it,  for  its  name's  sake,  or  rather  for  the 
sake  of  its  namesake.  But  before  I  tell  you  any 
thing  about  the  English  Boston,  I  will  just  go 
rapidly  over  my  route  from  Liverpool  to  this  place, 
in  order  to  give  you  some  idea  of  what  and  how 
much  I  have  seen  and  done,  in  the  short  space  of 
about  a  month.  I  took  coach  from  Liverpool  for 
the  north,  on  the  22d  of  May.  Nothing  occurred 
worth  putting  into  this  my  last  letter,  till  I  arrived 
at  Keswick,  in  Cumberland,  about  one  hundred 


JOURNAL.  185 

miles  from  Liverpool,  on  the  24th.  Here,  on  the 
banks  of  the  river  Greeta,  near  the  lake  of  Der- 
went  Water,  and  at  the  foot  of  the  Skiddaw, 
which  at  this  late  season  was  covered  with  snow, 
resides  Mr.  Southey.  Mr.  Everett  had  kindly 
given  me  a  letter  of  introduction  to  the  poet,  which 
I  sent  with  my  card  and  a  note  from  the  inn,  and 
in  a  few  moments  Mr.  S.  came  to  invite  me  to 
dinner. 

I  expected  to  see  a  grave-looking,  gray-headed, 
elderly  man,  instead  of  which,  I  saw  a  sprightly- 
looking,  curly-headed,  middle-aged  one,  full  of 
grace  and  urbanity,  and  of  the  most  affable  ad 
dress.  I  dined  with  him  of  course,  and  staid  till 
pretty  late  in  the  evening.  We  took  tea  in  his 
study,  which  is  completely  filled  with  fine  looking 
books,  and  I  need  not  say  valuable  ones.  I  was 
delighted  with  his  family  as  well  as  with  himself. 
He  is  most  happy  and  unexceptionable,  as  a  do 
mestic  man.  The  great  work  on  which  he  is  now 
engaged,  is  a  history  of  the  war  in  Spain,  or  as  it 
is  commonly  called,  the  Peninsular  War.  But  he 
is  also  at  work  upon  a  poem,  the  scene  of  which 
is  laid  in  our  part  of  the  world.  I  left  him  with 
regret,  and  went  back  on  the  road  about  a  dozen 
miles,  to  see  Mr.  Wordsworth,  to  whom  Mr. 
Southey  had  given  me  an  introductory  letter. 

Mr.  W.  looked  much  older,  and  more  slovenly 
16* 


186  MISCELLANIES. 

and  poet-like  than  his  brother  poet,  but  received 
me  with  quite  as  much  kindness  as  I  had  experi 
enced  at  Keswick.  I  stayed  with  him  a  whole 
day  and  night.  His  poetry  soon  became  the  sub 
ject  of  conversation.  I  told  him  that  the  first 
piece  of  poetry  which  I  remembered,  and  to  which 
I  attributed  my  first  love  of  song,  was  his  beauti 
ful  little  ballad  of  "  We  are  Seven,"  and  that  my 
mother  used  often  to  make  me  cry  by  repeating  it 
to  me.  This  pleased  him  very  much,  and  in  the 
evening  he  became  so  confidential  as  to  read  me 
nearly  the  whole  of  a  series  of  sonnets  which  he 
is  publishing.  One  in  particular  he  dwelt  upon, 
because  in  it  he  alluded  to  his  own  mother,  and 
had  been  reminded  of  it,  he  said,  by  my  speaking 
of  mine.  I  expressed  a  wish  for  a  copy  of  it, 
which  he  kindly  granted  ;  and  Mrs.  Wordsworth 
immediately  went  up  stairs  to  write  it  off,  so  that 
I  might  have  her  and  her  husband's  work  at  the 
same  time.  Here  is  the  sonnet.  It  is  called 


CATECHIZING. 

From  little  down  to  least  —  in  due  degree, 
Around  the  Pastor,  each  in  new-wrought  vest, 
Each  with  a  vernal  posy  at  his  breast, 
We  stood,  a  trembling,  earnest  company  ! 
With  low,  soft  murmurs,  like  a  distant  bee, 
Some  spake,  by  thought-perplexing  fears  betrayed, 
And  some  a  bold,  unerring  answer  made  : 
How  fluttered  then  thy  anxious  heart  for  me, 
Beloved  mother  !  thou  whose  happy  hand 
Had  bound  the  flowers  I  wore,  with  faithful  tie  ; 


JOURNAL.  187 

Sweet  flowers,  at  whose  inaudible  command 
Her  countenance,  phantom-Jike,  doth  reappear  — 
O,  lost  too  early  for  the  frequent  tear, 
And  ill-requited  by  this  heartfelt  sigh  ! 

Mr.  W.  is  as  simple  as  a  very  child,  and  his  po 
etry  is  the  exact  transcript  of  his  character  ;  you 
cannot  be  an  hour  with  him  without  being  con 
vinced  of  it. 

To  Edinburgh,  through  Carlisle,  Gretna  Green, 
Glasgow  and   Stirling,  was  above  one  hundred 

and  fifty  miles  more.    At  Stirling  I  wrote  to ; 

and  had  fully  determined  to  write  a  second  letter 
to  all  the  children  ;  but  I  have  been  so  much  oc 
cupied,  and  whirled  on  so  rapidly  from  place  to 
place,  that  I  have  found  it  impossible.  So  I  be 
lieve  they  must  be  satisfied  with  my  good  and  sin 
cere  intentions,  and  with  being  mentioned  in  this 
letter  ;  which  it  is  very  likely  you  may  not  see  till 
after  you  see  me.  At  Edinburgh  and  with  Edin 
burgh,  I  was  quite  delighted.  Mrs.  Grant  was 
extremely  kind ;  I  saw  her  every  evening.  I  was 
in  company,  too,  with  many  other  celebrated  folks 
of  this  literary  city.  But  we  must  leave  it,  for  I 
see  the  bottom  of  the  page.  From  Edinburgh  I 
passed  through  Newcastle,  the  famous  place  for 
coals,  Durham,  where  there  is  a  cathedral ;  York, 
where  there  is  another,  the  finest  in  the  kingdom ; 
and  then  by  the  way  of  Hull  to  Lincoln,  where 
there  is  also  a  cathedral  and  many  interesting  an- 


188  MISCELLANIES. 

tiquities.  To-day,  a  steamboat  brought  me  to 
Boston,  of  which  place  I  will  only  say,  that  it  is  a 
very  neat  and  respectable  looking  town,  by  no 
means  discrediting  our  own  bonnie  birth-place, 
and  that  there  is  in  it  the  finest  parish  church  in 
the  kingdom. 

July  4.  I  finish  this  letter  in  London,  after  a 
pleasant  journey  through  Peterborough,  a  cathe 
dral  town,  and  the  far-famed  Cambridge.  I  am 
again  comfortably  seated  in  Mr.  B.'s  parlor,  with 
him  and  his  wife  beside  me,  and  have  been  telling 
them  immensely  long  stories,  as  travellers  are  apt 
to  do.  They  are  both  well.  I  can  hardly  realize 
that  I  am  coming  home.  But  it  is  a  settled  thing ; 
I  am  fully  convinced  that  I  am  doing  right.  You 
will  see  me,  I  hope,  looking  better  than  when  I 
left  you,  though  there  is  a  part  of  my  animal  econ 
omy  more  out  of  order  than  it  was  then.  But,  on 
the  whole,  I  am  stronger,  and  know  better  how 
to  doctor  myself.  My  friends  here  tell  me  that  I 
am  amazingly  improved.  So  let  us  thank  Heaven 
for  that.  My  first  and  warmest  wish  now  is,  that 
I  may  find  you,  my  dear  parents,  and  my  brothers 
and  sisters,  in  the  very  best  health,  and,  if  changed 
at  all,  improved.  I  know  that  your  love  for  me 
will  never  change,  and  that  you  will  meet  most 
gladly  your  affectionate  son  and  brother, 

FRANCIS. 


ESSAYS. 


E  SSAYS. 


THE   VILLAGE   GRAVE-YARD. 


Why  is  my  sleep  disquieted  ? 
Who  is  he  that  calls  the  dead  ? 

BYRON. 

IN  the  beginning  of  the  fine  month  of  October. 
I  was  travelling  with  a  friend  in  one  of  our  north 
ern  states,  on  a  tour  of  recreation  and  pleasure. 
We  were  tired  of  the  city,  its  noise,  its  smoke,  and 
its  unmeaning  dissipation,  and  with  the  feelings  of 
emancipated  prisoners,  we  had  been  breathing  for 
a  few  weeks  the  perfume  of  the  vales,  and  the 
elastic  atmosphere  of  the  uplands.  Some  minutes 
before  the  sunset  of  a  most  lovely  day,  we  entered 
a  neat  little  village,  whose  tapering  spire  we  had 
caught  sight  of  at  intervals  an  hour  before,  as  our 
road  made  an  unexpected  turn,  or  led  us  to  the 


192  MISCELLANIES. 

top  of  a  hill.  Having  no  motive  to  urge  a  further 
progress,  and  being  unwilling  to  ride  in  an  un 
known  country  after  nightfall,  we  stopped  at  the 
inn,  and  determined  to  lodge  there. 

Leaving  my  companion  to  arrange  our  accom 
modations  with  the  landlord,  I  strolled  on  toward 
the  meeting-house.  Its  situation  had  attracted  my 
notice.  There  was  much  more  taste  and  beauty 
in  it  than  is  common.  It  did  not  stand,  as  I  have 
seen  some  meeting-houses  stand,  in  the  most  fre 
quented  part  of  the  village,  blockaded  by  wagons 
and  horses,  with  a  court-house  before  it,  an  en 
gine-house  behind  it,  a  store-house  under  it,  and 
a  tavern  on  each  side  ;  it  stood  away  from  all 
these  things,  as  it  ought,  and  was  placed  on  a  spot 
of  gently  rising  ground,  a  short  distance  from  the 
main  road,  at  the  end  of  a  green  lane  ;  and  so 
near  to  a  grove  of  oaks  and  walnuts,  that  one  of 
the  foremost  and  largest  trees  brushed  against  the 
pulpit  window.  On  the  left  and  lower  down, 
there  was  a  fertile  meadow,  through  which  a  clear 
brook  wound  its  course,  fell  over  a  rock,  and  then 
hid  itself  in  the  thickest  part  of  the  grove.  A  little 
to  the  right  of  the  meeting-house  was  the  grave 
yard. 

I  never  shun  a  grave-yard  —  the  thoughtful  mel 
ancholy  which  it  inspires,  is  grateful  rather  than 
disagreeable  to  me  —  it  gives  me  no  pain  to  tread 


THE    VILLAGE    GRAVE- YARD.  193 

on  the  green  roof  of  that  dark  mansion,  whose 
chambers  I  must  occupy  so  soon  —  and  I  often 
wander,  from  choice,  to  a  place  where  there  is 
neither  solitude  nor  society  ;  something  human  is 
there  ;  but  the  folly,  the  bustle,  the  vanities,  the 
pretensions,  the  competitions,  the  pride  of  human 
ity,  are  gone  ;  men  are  there,  but  their  passions 
are  hushed,  and  their  spirits  are  still ;  malevolence 
has  lost  its  power  of  harming  ;  appetite  is  sated, 
ambition  lies  low,  and  lust  is  cold  ;  anger  has 
done  raving,  all  disputes  are  ended,  all  revelry  is 
over,  the  fellest  animosity  is  deeply  buried,  and 
the  most  dangerous  sins  are  safely  confined  by  the 
thickly-piled  clods  of  the  valley  ;  vice  is  dumb  and 
powerless,  and  virtue  is  waiting  in  silence  for  the 
trump  of  the  archangel,  and  the  voice  of  God. 

I  never  shun  a  grave-yard,  and  I  entered  this. 
There  were  trees  growing  in  it,  here  and  there, 
though  it  was  not  regularly  planted  ;  and  I  thought 
that  it  looked  better  than  if  it  had  been.  The 
only  paths  were  those,  which  had  been  worn  by 
the  slow  feet  of  sorrow  and  sympathy,  as  they 
followed  love  and  friendship  to  the  grave  ;  and 
this  too  was  well,  for  I  dislike  a  smoothly  rolled 
gravel-walk  in  a  place  like  this.  In  a  corner  of 
the  ground  rose  a  gentle  knoll,  the  top  of  which 
was  covered  by  a  clump  of  pines.  Here  my  walk 
ended  ;  I  threw  myself  down  on  the  slippery 
17 


194  MISCELLANIES. 

couch  of  withered  pine  leaves,  which  the  breath 
of  many  winters  had  shaken  from  the  boughs 
above  ;  leaned  my  head  upon  my  hand,  and  gave 
myself  up  to  the  feelings  which  the  place  and  the 
time  excited. 

The  sun's  edge  had  just  touched  the  hazy  out 
lines  of  the  western  hills  ;  it  was  the  signal  for  the 
breeze  to  be  hushed,  and  it  was  breathing  like  an 
expiring  infant,  softly,  and  at  distant  intervals,  be 
fore  it  died  away.  The  trees  before  me,  as  the 
wind  passed  over  them,  waved  to  and  fro,  and 
trailed  their  long  branches  across  the  tomb-stones, 
with  a  low  moaning  sound,  which  fell  upon  the 
ear  like  the  voice  of  grief,  and  seemed  to  utter  the 
conscious  tribute  of  nature's  sympathy  over  the 
last  abode  of  mortal  man.  A  low,  confused  hum 
came  from  the  village  ;  the  brook  was  murmuring 
in  the  wood  behind  me  ;  and,  lulled  by  all  these 
soothing  sounds,  I  fell  asleep. 

But  whether  my  eyes  closed  or  not,  I  am  una 
ble  to  say,  for  the  same  scene  appeared  to  be  be 
fore  them,  the  same  trees  were  waving,  and  not  a 
green  mound  had  changed  its  form.  I  was  still 
contemplating  the  same  trophies  of  the  unsparing 
victor,  the  same  mementos  of  human  evanescence. 
Some  were  standing  upright ;  others  were  in 
clined  to  the  ground  ;  some  were  sunk  so  deeply 
in  the  earth,  that  their  blue  tops  were  just  visible 


THE    VILLAGE    GRAVE-YARD.  ]  95 

above  the  long  grass  which  surrounded  them  ;  and 
others  were  spotted  or  covered  with  the  thin  yel 
low  moss  of  the  grave-yard.  I  was  reading  the 
inscriptions  on  the  stones,  which  were  nearest  to 
me  ;  they  recorded  the  virtues  of  those  who  slept 
beneath  them,  and  told  the  traveller  that  they 
hoped  for  a  happy  rising.  Ah  !  said  I  —  or  I 
dreamed  that  I  said  so  —  this  is  the  testimony  of 
wounded  hearts  ;  the  fond  belief  of  that  affection 
which  remembers  error  and  evil  no  longer  ;  but 
could  the  grave  give  up  its  dead  —  could  they, 
who  have  been  brought  to  these  cold  dark  houses, 
go  back  again  into  the  land  of  the  living,  and  once 
more  number  the  days  which  they  had  spent 
there,  how  differently  would  they  then  spend 
them  ;  and  when  they  came  to  die,  how  much 
firmer  would  be  their  hope  ;  and  when  they  were 
again  laid  in  the  ground,  how  much  more  faithful 
would  be  the  tales,  which  these  same  stones  would 
tell  over  them  !  The  epitaph  of  praise  would  be 
well  deserved  by  their  virtues,  and  the  silence  of 
partiality  no  longer  required  for  their  sins. 

I  had  scarcely  spoken,  when  the  ground  began 
to  tremble  beneath  me.  Its  motion,  hardly  per 
ceptible  at  first,  increased  every  moment  in  vio 
lence,  and  it  soon  heaved  and  struggled  fearfully ; 
while  in  the  short  quiet  between  shock  and  shock, 
I  heard  such  unearthly  sounds,  that  the  very  "blood 


196  MISCELLANIES. 

in  my  heart  felt  cold  —  subterraneous  cries  and 
groans  issued  from  every  part  of  the  grave-yard, 
and  these  were  mingled  with  a  hollow  crashing 
noise,  as  if  the  mouldering  bones  were  bursting 
from  their  coffins.  Suddenly  all  these  sounds 
stopped  —  the  earth  on  each  grave  was  thrown 
lip  —  and  human  figures  of  every  age,  and  clad  in 
the  garments  of  death,  rose  from  the  ground  and 
stood  by  the  side  of  their  grave-stones.  Their 
arms  were  crossed  upon  their  bosoms  ;  their  coun 
tenances  were  deadly  pale,  and  raised  to  heaven. 
The  looks  of  the  young  children  alone  were  placid 
and  unconscious  ;  but  over  the  features  of  all  the 
rest  a  shadow  of  unutterable  meaning  passed  and 
repassed,  as  their  eyes  turned  with  terror  from 
the  open  graves,  and  strained  anxiously  upward. 
Some  appeared  to  be  more  calm  than  others,  and 
when  they  looked  above,  it  was  with  an  expres 
sion  of  more  confidence,  though  not  less  humility  ; 
but  a  convulsive  shuddering  was  on  the  frames  of 
all,  and  on  their  faces  that  same  shadow  of  unut 
terable  meaning.  While  they  stood  thus,  I  per 
ceived  that  their  bloodless  lips  began  to  move,  and 
though  I  heard  no  voice,  I  knew  by  the  motion  of 
their  lips,  that  the  word  would  have  been  —  par 
don. 

But  this  did  not  continue  long  ;  they  gradually 
became   more   fearless  ;    their  features   acquired 


THE    VILLAGE    GRAVE-YARD.  197 

the  appearance  of  security,  and  at  last  of  indiffer 
ence  ;  the  blood  came  to  their  lips  ;  the  shudder 
ing  ceased,  and  the  shadow  passed  away. 

And  now  the  scene  before  me  changed.  The 
tombs  and  grave-stones  had  been  turned,  I  knew 
not.  how,  into  dwellings  ;  and  the  grave-yard  be 
came  a  village.  Every  now  and  then  I  caught  a 
view  of  the  same  faces  and  forms,  which  I  had 
seen  before  ;  but  other  passions  were  traced  upon 
their  faces,  and  their  forms  were  no  longer  clad 
in  the  garments  of  death.  The  silence  of  their 
still  prayer  was  succeeded  by  the  sounds  of  labor, 
and  society,  and  merriment.  Sometimes,  I  could 
see  them  meet  together  with  inflamed  features  and 
angry  words,  and  sometimes,  I  distinguished  the 
outcry  of  violence,  the  oath  of  passion,  and  the 
blasphemy  of  sin.  And  yet  there  were  a  few  who 
would  often  come  to  the  threshold  of  their  dwell 
ings,  and  lift  their  eyes  to  Heaven,  and  utter  the 
still  prayer  of  pardon,  while  others,  passing  by, 
would  mock  them. 

I  was  astonished  and  grieved,  and  was  just  go 
ing  to  express  my  feelings,  when  I  perceived  by 
my  side  a  beautiful  and  majestic  form,  taller  and 
brighter  than  the  sons  of  men,  and  it  thus  ad 
dressed  me —  "Mortal!  thou  hast  now  seen  the 
frailty  of  thy  race,  and  learned  that  thy  thoughts 
were  vain.  Even  if  men  should  be  wakened  from 


198  MISCELLANIES. 

their  cold  sleep,  and  raised  from  the  grave,  the 
world  would  still  be  full  of  enticement  and  trials ; 
appetite  would  solicit  and  passion  would  burn,  as 
strongly  as  before  ;  the  imperfections  of  their 
nature  would  accompany  their  return,  and  the 
commerce  of  life  would  soon  obliterate  the  recol 
lection  of  death.  It  is  only  when  this  scene  of 
things  is  exchanged  for  another,  that  new  gifts 
will  bestow  new  powers,  that  higher  objects  will 
banish  low  desires,  that  the  mind  will  be  elevated 
by  celestial  converse,  the  soul  be  endued  with 
immortal  vigor,  and  man  be  prepared  for  the 
course  of  eternity."  The  angel  then  turned  from 
me,  and  with  a  voice,  which  I  hear  even  now, 
cried,  "  Back  to  your  graves,  ye  frail  ones,  and 
rise  no  more,  till  the  elements  are  melted."  Im 
mediately  a  sound  swept  by  me,  like  the  rushing 
wind  ;  the  dwellings  shrunk  back  into  their  origi 
nal  forms,  and  I  was  left  alone  in  the  grave-yard, 
with  nought  but  the  silent  stones  and  the  whisper 
ing  trees  around  me. 

The  sun  had  long  been  down  ;  a  few  of  the 
largest  stars  were  timidly  beginning  to  shine,  the 
bats  had  left  their  lurking  places,  my  cheek  was 
wet  with  the  dew,  and  I  was  chilled  by  the  breath 
of  evening.  I  arose  and  returned  to  the  inn. 


ETERNITY    OF    GOD. 


WE  receive  such  repeated  intimations  of  decay 
in  the  world  through  which  we  are  passing,  de 
cline  and  change  and  loss  follow  decline  and 
change  and  loss  in  such  rapid  succession,  that  we 
can  almost  catch  the  sound  of  universal  wasting, 
and  hear  the  work  of  desolation  going  on  busily 
around  us.  "  The  mountain  falling  cometh  to 
nought,  and  the  rock  is  removed  out  of  his  place. 
The  waters  wear  the  stones,  the  things  which  grow 
out  of  the  dust  of  the  earth  are  washed  away,  and 
the  hope  of  man  is  destroyed."  Conscious  of  our 
own  instability  we  look  about  for  something  to 
rest  on,  but  we  look  in  vain.  The  heavens  and 
the  earth  had  a  beginning,  and  they  will  have  an 
end.  The  face  of  the  world  is  changing  daily  and 
hourly.  All  animated  things  grow  old  and  die. 
The  rocks  crumble,  the  trees  fall,  the  leaves  fade, 
and  the  grass  withers.  The  clouds  are  flying,  and 
the  waters  are  flowing  away  from  us. 


200  MISCELLANIES. 

The  firmest  works  of  man,  too,  are  gradually 
giving  way ;  the  ivy  clings  to  the  mouldering  tower, 
the  briar  hangs  out  from  the  shattered  window, 
and  the  wall-flower  springs  from  the  disjointed 
stones.  The  founders  of  these  perishable  works 
have  shared  the  same  fate  long  ago.  If  we  look 
back  to  the  days  of  our  ancestors,  to  the  men  as 
well  as  the  dwellings  of  former  times,  they  be 
come  immediately  associated  in  our  imaginations, 
and  only  make  the  feeling  of  instability  stronger 
and  deeper  than  before.  In  the  spacious  domes, 
which  once  held  our  fathers,  the  serpent  hisses, 
and  the  wjld  bird  screams.  The  halls,  which  once 
were  crowded  with  all  that  taste  and  science  and 
labor  could  procure,  which  resounded  with  melo 
dy,  and  were  lighted  up  with  beauty,  are  buried 
by  their  own  ruins,  mocked  by  their  own  desola 
tion.  The  voice  of  merriment  and  of  wailing, 
the  steps  of  the  busy  and  the  idle,  have  ceased  in 
the  deserted  courts,  and  the  weeds  choke  the 
entrances,  and  the  long  grass  waves  upon  the 
hearth-stone.  The  works  of  art,  the  forming  hand, 
the  tombs,  the  very  ashes  they  contained,  are  all 
gone. 

While  we  thus  walk  among  the  ruins  of  the 
past,  a  sad  feeling  of  insecurity  comes  over  us  ; 
and  that  feeling  is  by  no  means  diminished  when 
we  arrive  at  home.  If  we  turn  to  our  friends,  we 


ETERNITY    OF    GOD.  201 

can  hardly  speak  to  them  before  they  bid  us  fare 
well.  We  see  them  for  a  few  moments,  and  in 
a  few  moments  more  their  countenances  are 
changed,  and  they  are  sent  away.  It  matters  not 
how  near  and  dear  they  are.  The  ties  which  bind 
us  together  are  never  too  close  to  be  parted,  or  too 
strong  to  be  broken.  Tears  were  never  known 
to  move  the  king  of  terrors,  neither  is  it  enough 
that  we  are  compelled  to  surrender  one,  or  two, 
or  many  of  those  we  love  ;  for  though  the  price 
is  so  great,  we  buy  no  favor  with  it,  and  our  hold 
on  those  who  remain  is  as  slight  as  ever.  The 
shadows  all  elude  our  grasp,  and  follow  one  an 
other  down  the  valley.  We  gain  no  confidence, 
then,  no  feeling  of  security,  by  turning  to  our  con 
temporaries  and  kindred.  We  know  that  the 
forms  which  are  breathing  around  us,  are  as  short 
lived  and  fleeting  as  those  were,  which  have  been 
dust  for  centuries.  The  sensation  of  vanity,  un 
certainty,  and  ruin,  is  equally  strong,  whether  we 
muse  on  what  has  long  been  prostrate,  or  gaze  on 
what  is  falling  now,  or  will  fall  so  soon. 

If  everything  which  comes  under  our  notice  has 
endured  for  so  short  a  time,  and  in  so  short  a  time 
will  be  no  more,  we  cannot  say  that  we  receive 
the  least  assurance  by  thinking  on  ourselves. 
When  they,  on  w^hose  fate  we  have  been  meditat 
ing,  were  engaged  in  the  active  scenes  of  life,  as 


202  MISCELLANIES, 

full  of  health  and  hope  as  we  are  now,  what  were 
we  ?  We  had  no  knowledge,  no  consciousness,  no 
being  ;  there  was  not  a  single  thing  in  the  wide  uni 
verse  which  knew  us.  And  after  the  same  interval 
shall  have  elapsed,  which  now  divides  their  days 
from  ours,  what  shall  we  be  ?  What  they  are 
now.  When  a  few  more  friends  have  left,  a  few 
more  hopes  have  been  deceived,  and  a  few  more 
changes  have  mocked  us,  "  we  shall  be  brought  to 
the  grave,  and  shall  remain  in  the  tomb,  the  clods 
of  the  valley  shall  be  sweet  unto  us,  and  every 
man  shall  follow  us,  as  there  are  innumerable 
before  us."  All  power  will  have  forsaken  the 
strongest,  and  the  loftiest  will  be  laid  low,  and 
every  eye  will  be  -closed,  and  every  voice  hushed, 
and  every  heart  will  have  ceased  its  beating.  And 
when  we  have  gone  ourselves,  even  our  memo 
ries  will  not  stay  behind  us  long.  A  few  of  the 
near  and  dear  will  bear  our  likeness  in  their  bo 
soms,  till  they  too  have  arrived  at  the  end  of  their 
journey,  and  entered  the  dark  dwelling  of  uncon 
sciousness.  In  the  thoughts  of  others  we  shall 
live  only  till  the  last  sound  of  the  bell,  which  in 
forms  them  of  our  departure,  has  ceased  to  vibrate 
in  their  ears.  A  stone,  perhaps,  may  tell  some 
wanderer  where  we  lie,  when  we  came  here,  and 
when  we  went  away,  but  even  that  will  soon  re 
fuse  to  bear  us  record.  "  Time's  effacing  fingers  " 


ETERNITY    OF    GOD.  203 

will  be  busy  on  its  surface,  and  at  length  will  wear 
it  smootb,  and  then  the  stone  itself  will  sink,  or 
crumble,  and  the  wanderer  of  another  age  will 
pass,  without  a  single  call  upon  his  sympathy,  over 
our  unheeded  graves. 

Is  there  nothing  to  counteract  the  sinking  of  the 
heart,  which  must  be  the  effect  of  observations 
like  these  ?  Is  there  no  substance  among  all  these 
shadows  ?  If  all  who  live  and  breathe  around  us 
are  the  creatures  of  yesterday,  and  destined  to  see 
destruction  to-morrow  ;  if  the  same  condition  is 
our  own,  and  the  same  sentence  is  written  against 
us ;  if  the  solid  forms  of  inanimate  nature  and  la 
borious  art  are  fading  and  falling  ;  if  we  look  in 
vain  for  durability  to  the  very  roots  of  the  moun 
tains,  where  shall  we  turn,  and  on  what  can  we 
rely  ?  Can  no  support  be  offered  ;  can  no  source 
of  confidence  be  named  1  O  yes !  there  is  one 
Being  to  whom  we  can  look  with  a  perfect  con 
viction  of  finding  that  security,  which  nothing 
about  us  can  give,  and  which  nothing  about  us 
can  take  away.  To  this  Being  we  can  lift  up  our 
souls,  and  on  him  we  may  rest  them,  exclaiming, 
in  the  language  of  the  monarch  of  Israel,  "  Before 
the  mountains  were  brought  forth,  or  ever  thou 
hadst  formed  the  earth  and  the  world,  even  from 
everlasting  to  everlasting  thou  art  God."  "  Of 
old  hast  thou  laid  the  foundations  of  the  earth,  and 


204  MISCELLANIES. 

the  heavens  are  the  work  of  thy  hands.  They 
shall  perish,  but  thou  shalt  endure,  yea,  all  of  them 
shall  wax  old  as  doth  a  garment,  as  a  vesture  shalt 
thou  change  them,  and  they  shall  be  changed,  but 
thou  art  the  same,  and  thy  years  shall  have  no 
end." 

The  eternity  of  God  is  a  subject  of  contempla 
tion,  which,  at  the  same  time  that  it  overwhelms 
us  with  astonishment  and  awe,  affords  us  an  im 
movable  ground  of  confidence  in  the  midst  of  a 
changing  world.  All  things  which  surround  us, 
all  these  dying,  mouldering  inhabitants  of  time, 
must  have  had  a  Creator,  for  the  plain  reason, 
that  they  could  not  have  created  themselves.  And 
their  Creator  must  have  existed  from  all  eternity 
for  the  plain  reason,  that  the  First  Cause  must  ne 
cessarily  be  uncaused.  As  we  cannot  suppose  a 
beginning  without  a  cause  of  existence,  that  which 
is  the  cause  of  all  existence  must  be  self-existent, 
and  could  have  had  no  beginning.  And  as  it  had 
no  beginning,  so  also,  as  it  is  beyond  the  reach  of 
all  influence  and  control,  as  it  is  independent  and 
almighty,  it  will  have  no  end. 

Here,  then,  is  a  support  which  will  never  fail ; 
here  is  a  foundation  which  can  never  be  moved  — 
the  everlasting  Creator  of  countless  worlds,  "  the 
high  and  lofty  One  that  inhabiteth  eternity."  What 
a  sublime  conception  !  He  inhabits  eternity,  oc- 


ETERNITY    OF    GOD.  205 

cupies  this  inconceivable  duration,  pervades  and 
fills  throughout  this  boundless  dwelling.  Ages 
on  ages  before  ev?u  tV.e  dust  of  which  v;e  are 
formed  was  created,  I,.-;  had  existed  in  infinite 
majesty,  and  ages  on  ages  will  roll  away  after  we 
have  all  returned  to  the  dust  whence  we  were 
taken,  and  still  HE  will  exist  in  infinite  majesty, 
living  in  the  eternity  of  his  own  nature,  reigning 
in  the  plenitude  of  his  own  omnipotence,  forever 
sending  forth  the  word,  which  forms,  supports  and 
governs  all  things,  commanding  new  created  light 
to  shine  on  new  created  worlds,  and  raising  up 
new  created  generations  to  inhabit  them. 

The  contemplation  of  this  glorious  attribute  of 
God  is  fitted  to  excite  in  our  minds  the  most  ani 
mating  and  consoling  reflections.  Standing,  as 
we  are,  amid  the  ruins  of  time,  and  the  wrecks  of 
mortality,  where  everything  about  us  is  created 
and  dependent,  proceeding  from  nothing,  and 
hastening  to  destruction,  we  rejoice  that  some 
thing  is  presented  to  our  view  which  has  stood 
from  everlasting,  and  will  remain  forever.  When 
we  have  looked  on  the  pleasures  of  life,  and  they 
have  vanished  away  ;  when  we  have  looked  on 
the  works  of  nature,  and  perceived  that  they  were 
changing  ;  on  the  monuments  of  art,  and  seen 
that  they  would  not  stand  ;  on  our  friends,  and 
they  have  fled  while  we  were  gazing  ;  on  our- 
18 


206  MISCELLANIES. 

selves,  and  felt  that  we  were  as  fleeting  as  they  ; 
when  we  have  looked  on  every  object  to  which 
we  could  turn  our  anxious  eyes,  and  they  have  all 
told  us  that  they  could  give  us  no  hope  nor  sup 
port,  because  they  were  so  feeble  themselves  ;  we 
can  look  to  the  throne  of  God  ;  change  and  de 
cay  have  never  reached  it ;  the  revolution  of  ages 
has  never  moved  it ;  the  waves  of  an  eternity 
have  been  rushing  past  it,  but  it  has  remained 
unshaken  ;  the  waves  of  another  eternity  are  rush 
ing  toward  it,  but  it  is  fixed,  and  can  never  be  dis 
turbed. 

And  blessed  be  God,  who  has  assured  us  by  a 
revelation  from  himself,  that  the  throne  of  eternity 
is  likewise  a  throne  of  mercy  and  love  ;  who  has 
permitted  and  invited  us  to  repose  ourselves  and 
our  hopes  on  that  which  alone  is  everlasting  and 
unchangeable.  We  shall  shortly  finish  our  allotted 
time  on  earth,  even  if  it  should  be  unusually  pro 
longed.  We  shall  leave  behind  us  all  which  is 
now  familiar  and  beloved,  and  a  world  of  other 
days  and  other  men  will  be  entirely  ignorant  that 
once  we  lived.  But  the  same  unalterable  Being 
will  still  preside  over  the  universe,  through  all  its 
changes,  and  from  his  remembrance  we  shall 
never  be  blotted.  We  can  never  be  where  he 
is  not,  nor  where  he  sees  and  loves  and  upholds 
us  not.  He  is  our  Father  and  our  God  forever. 


ETERNITY    OF    GOD.  207 

He  takes  us  from  earth  that  he  may  lead  us  to 
Heaven,  that  he  may  refine  our  nature  from  all 
its  principles  of  corruption,  share  with  us  his  own 
immortality,  admit  us  to  his  everlasting  habitation, 
and  crown  us  with  his  eternity. 


MILTON'S   PROSE   WORKS. 


THE  prose  writings  of  Milton,  though  they  have 
been  praised  and  recommended  by  a  few  who 
have  felt  their  astonishing  power  and  beauty,  are 
yet  but  little  known  among  us.  We  hope,  how 
ever,  that  this  will  not  long  be  the  case  ;  and  that 
the  excellent  edition  by  Mr.  Jenks,  will  enable 
many  to  read  the  prose  of  a  man  with  whose  po 
etry  they  have  long  been  familiar  —  prose,  we  will 
venture  to  say,  hardly  inferior  to  his  poetry.  As 
Americans,  as  lovers  of  freedom,  improvement, 
and  truth,  we  wish  to  see  these  two  volumes  widely 
circulated  among  our  countrymen,  and  deeply 
read.  They  are  fit  manuals  for  a  free  people. 
They  are  full  of  those  eloquent,  soul-stirring,  holy 
lessons  of  liberty,  which  do  something  more  than 
simply  persuade  and  convince  the  mind  ;  which 
give  it  purpose,  and  principle,  and  firm  resolve  ; 
which  brace  up  the  heart,  while  they  strengthen 
the  understanding ;  which  render  timidity  or  apos- 
tacy  impossible  ;  which,  at  the  same  time  that 


MILTON'S  PROSE  WORKS.  209 

they  impart  the  feeling  of  discipleship,  infuse  the 
spirit  of  martyrdom  ;  because  the  truths  which 
they  inculcate  are  of  such  a  nature,  that  those  who 
receive  them  must  contend,  and  if  needs  be,  must 
die  for  them.  Therefore  it  is  that  we  earnestly 
desire  to  see  the  prose  works  of  John  Milton  gen 
erally  disseminated  ;  and  that  we  hail  with  plea 
sure  and  gratitude  every  attempt  to  make  them 
known.  When  they  are,  known,  it  cannot  be  but 
that  they  will  produce  their  impression,  and  be 
estimated  by  many,  as  they  are  now  estimated  by 
a  few,  according  to  their  real  value. 

For  ourselves,  we  can  truly  say  that  we  never 
knew  Milton,  till  we  were  acquainted  with  his 
prose  writings.  We  never  knew  the  man  till 
then  ;  never  felt  how  entirely  and  supremely  he 
was  a  poet,  or,  to  use  his  own  words,  "  a  true 
poem  ;  that  is,  a  composition  and  pattern  of  the 
best  and  honorablest  things."  We  never  knew 
till  then,  what  a  noble,  high-minded  being,  what  a 
contemner  of  littleness  and  baseness,  what  ?l  fear 
less  asserter  of  right  and  denouncer  of  wrong,  how 
pure,  how  virtuous,  how  incorruptible,  how  un 
conquerable  he  was.  How  truly  the  modern  poet 
speaks  of  him,  when  he  says  ;  "  His  soul  was  as  a 
star,  and  dwelt  apart."  When  we  now  compare 
him  with  his  brother  stars,  we  perceive  that  he  has 
indeed  his  own  separate  heaven,  where  he  shines 
18* 


210 


MISCELLANIES. 


alone,  and  not  to  be  approached.  If  we  grant 
that  in  the  single  respect  of  genius  he  was  second 
to  Shakspeare,  and  to  him  alone  would  we  grant 
him  to  be  second,  yet  what  was  Shakspeare's  life  ? 
What  were  his  occupations,  studies,  principles  ? 
We  know  nothing  of  them  ;  they  made  no  im 
pression  on  the  world  ;  they  have  passed  away, 
and  left  us  no  trace  ;  they  have  procured  no  re 
spect  for  the  man.  We  think  of  Shakspeare's 
poetry,  and  not  of  Shakspeare.  His  name  comes 
to  us  as  a  voice,  an  abstraction,  a  beautiful  sound. 
But  the  name  of  Milton  is  inseparably  united  with 
the  man  himself;  with  the  imnge  of  his  life  ;  with 
his  studious,  blameless,  brilliant  youth  ;  with  his 
diligent,  useful,  resolute  manhood  ;  with  his  un 
broken  and  undaunted,  though  blind  and  neglected, 
old  age  ;  with  learning,  various,  profound,  unri 
valled  ;  with  opinions  really  liberal,  and  republi 
can  ;  with  convictions  which  no  fear  nor  flattery 
could  shake;  with  principles  which  grew  up  from 
the  ver^  roots  of  truth.  We  will  not  proceed  with 
other  comparisons,  which  readily  suggest  them 
selves  to  us.  They  may  be  pursued  by  those  who 
are  sensible  that  genius  of  mind  alone  ranks  far 
below  what  may  be  called  genius  of  life  ;  genius 
of  rnind  united  in  admirable  consistency  with  ge 
nius  of  action,  genius  of  purpose,  and  genius  of 
heart. 


MILTON'S  PROSE  WORKS.  211 

There  is  another  thing  with  which  the  prose 
writings  of  Milton  brought  us  acquainted.  We 
never  knew,  till  we  read  them,  the  whole  power 
of  our  mother  tongue.  Let  him  who  would  un 
derstand  how  rich,  how  copious,  how  forcible  the 
English  language  is,  study  the  prose  of  Milton, 
and  make  himself  familiar  with  his  style  ;  but  let 
him  not  attempt  to  imitate,  let  him  not  hope  to 
equal  the  master,  unless  he  feel  within  himself  the 
master's  gifts  and  the  master's  soul. 

But  if  such  is  the  prose  of  the  great  poet,  how 
happens  it  that  it  is  not  more  generally  known  ? 
How  happens  it  that  this  magazine  of  just  and  no 
ble  thoughts,  high  imaginations,  and  burning 
words,  has  been  in  a  manner  shut  up  and  un vis 
ited  ?  How  happens  it,  that  while  the  Paradise 
Lost  has  been  printed  in  every  form  and  size,  in 
editions  without  number,  for  the  rich  and  for  the 
poor,  illustrated  by  the  artist,  and  furnished  with 
notes  and  commentaries  by  distinguished  scholars, 
as  if  it  \vere  an  ancient  classic,  that  the  Areopa- 
gitica,  The  Reason  of  Church  Government,  The 
Animadversions,  have  been  rarely  published,  and 
sparingly  read  ? 

The  two  principal  reasons  of  the  want  of  popu 
larity  of  Milton's  prose  works,  have  been  usually 
stated,  and  truly,  to  be  the  peculiarities  of  their 
style,  and  the  nature  and  management  of  their 


212  MISCELLANIES. 

topics.  Of  their  style  we  shall  say  a  few  words 
by-and-by.  Of  their  topics,  and  the  management 
of  them,  in  which  the  great  cause  of  their  unpopu 
larity  is  decidedly  to  be  found,  we  shall  speak  at 
once,  and  more  at  length. 

The  prose  writings,  then,  of  Milton,  are  all, 
both  Latin  and  English,  with  only  one  or  two  ex 
ceptions,  strictly,  and  many  would  say,  bitterly 
controversial.  They  are  theological  and  political 
controversies.  They  wear,  therefore,  a  formidable 
and  forbidding  aspect  to  the  generality  of  readers  ; 
for  controversy  is  not  a  favorite  kind  of  reading; 
it  requires  more  thought,  and  a  more  severe  and 
constant  exercise  of  judgment,  candor,  patience, 
and  equanimity,  than  most  people  are  willing  or 
able  to  bestow  and  apply  ;  it  is  rarely  conducted 
by  the  disputants  without  more  or  less  asperity  ; 
it  hns  acquired  a  bad  name  ;  it  is  called,  by  dis 
tinction,  a  thorny  path  ;  and  many  think  they 
cannot  walk  in  it,  without  danger  to  their  faces 
and  their  clothes,  and  therefore  they  decline  it 
with  terror  and  aversion.  Now  we  profess  our 
selves  to  be  great  friends  of  controversy.  We 
regard  it  with  respect  and  favor,  if  not  absolutely 
with  love.  If  it  is  not  a  pleasant  and  flowery 
way,  it  is  the  direct  road  to  light  and  knowledge  ; 
and  if  so,  why  do  we  talk  about  thorns,  as  if  we 
expected  to  reach  any  of  the  supreme  and  per- 


213 


manent  blessings  of  life,  treading  all  the  distance 
on  turf  and  roses  ?  We  are  glad  that  the  glorious 
bard  made  it  his  adopted  path,  and  that  he  pur 
sued  it  with  so  untiredj  so  forward,  and  so  firm  a 
step.  We  would  not  have  had  him  write  on  any 
other  subjects  but  those,  which  not  only  singularly 
involved  the  destinies  of  England  at  the  period  of 
his  writing,  but  are  inseparably  connected  with 
the  present,  future,  lasting  welfare  of  the  world. 
He  was  peculiarly  fitted  to  elicit  and  establish 
truth  by  controversy  ;  which  we  are  persuaded  is 
its  proper,  and  almost  its  peculiar  office.  For  the 
confirmation  of  this  sentiment,  we  will  take  the 
liberty  of  offering  our  reasons. 

False  teachers  will  arise  in  all  ages,  and  deceive 
many  ;  some  of  them  intending  to  deceive,  and 
others  having  no  such  intention.  Dreams  will  be 
announced  as  realities,  and  believed  as  such ;  and 
realities  will  be  scouted  as  dreams.  There  is  such 
a  perpetual  warfare  between  truth  and  error  in  the 
world,  that  the  old  Manichean  notion  of  two  great 
opposing  principles  of  good  and  evil,  who,  with 
their  kingdoms  of  light  and  darkness,  are  engaged 
in  constant  and  tremendous  battle,  would  be  little 
more  than  an  accurate  account  of  the  real  state  of 
things,  if  it  were  stripped  of  its  personifications  and 
oriental  imagery.  There  is  a  battle  between  good 
and  evil ;  there  is  a  struggle  between  the  powers 


214  MISCELLANIES. 

of  light  and  darkness.  Knowledge  and  virtue  are 
in  perpetual  conflict  with  ignorance  and  vice  ;  and 
whatever  advantages  the  former  may  from  time 
to  time  gain  over  the  latter,  the  latter  are  mighty 
antagonists,  who  will  no  doubt  maintain  the  con 
test  obstinately  and  long. 

If  the  champions  of  error  would  in  all  cases 
avow  themselves  to  be  so  ;  if  they  would  write 
their  name  and  their  purpose  on  their  banners,  and 
send  an  open  defiance,  like  him  of  Gath,  against 
the  armies  of  the  living  God,  the  contest  might  be 
brought  to  a  more  certain  and  speedy  issue  ;  but 
there  are  few  of  them  who  do  not  profess,  either 
sincerely  or  insincerely,  to  be  on  the  side  of  truth 
arid  virtue  ;  and  thus  they  become  doubly  mis 
chievous  by  being  disguised,  and  occasion  the  dou 
ble  necessity  of  unmasking  and  overcoming  them* 
Many  teachers  of  what  is  false  and  of  a  pernicious 
tendency,  are  as  honest  as  it  is  possible  for  self- 
deceiving  humanity  to  be.  They  are  the  first,  and 
most  thorough  believers  of  their  own  dreams  ;  and 
are  fully  persuaded  that  they  are  dreaming  for  the 
cause  of  truth  and  the  general  welfare.  The  same 
honest  language  is  held  by  those  who  are  not  ac 
tuated  by  the  same  pure  motives  ;  by  those  who 
uphold  falsehood  for  the  sake  of  their  own  private 
interests,  or  through  the  incitement  of  their  bad 
passionSj  but  do  not  confess  the  influence  which 


MILTON'S  PROSE  WORKS.  215 

guides  and  sways  them,  because  they  know  that 
interest  and  passion,  however  powerful  in  them 
selves,  are  worse  than  powerless  when  presented 
as  arguments  to  others  ;  for  he  who  wishes  to  be 
heard  with  the  least  patience  by  his  neighbor, 
must  appear  to  be  anxious  for  his  neighbor's  good, 
not  merely  careful  of  his  own.  Tyrants  talk  of 
the  safely  of  the  state,  and  the  happiness  of  their 
people,  without  saying  much  about  the  sweets  of 
absolute  power,  and  the  indulgence  of  all  their 
appetites  and  luxurious  wishes.  Indeed,  it  is  not 
unfreqnently  the  case  that  interest  is  louder  in  its 
professions  of  disinterestedness  than  is  disinterest 
edness  itself;  for  virtue  is  modest,  and  hypocrisy 
is  bold  ;  and  a  part  that  is  acted  is  likely  to  be 
overacted. 

To  detect  error  is  to  overthrow  it.  But  the 
most  desperate  antagonists  of  truth  will  not  allow 
that  they  are  in  the  wrong,  or,  in  other  words, 
that  they  are  attacking  what  really  is  truth.  The 
world  is  filled  with  falsehood,  which  never  calls 
itself  by  that  name.  The  diversities  of  human 
intellect  and  feeling,  and  the  influences  of  educa 
tion,  hnbit  and  passion,  give  rise  to  innumerable 
errors,  which  agree  together  in  two  points,  in  be 
ing  of  a  bad  tendency,  and  in  assuming  the  name 
of  truth.  On  the  one  hand  is  falsehood,  which 
thinks  itself  to  be  truth  ;  and  on  the  other  hand 


216  MISCELLANIES. 

is  falsehood,  which  is  resolved,  if  possible,  to 
be  thought  so  too,  whatever  it  may  think  itself. 
Hence  come  theories,  systems,  and  plans,  varying 
from  each  other,  and  from  truth  in  different  de 
grees  ;  and,  just  in  proportion  as  they  vary  from 
truth,  conducing  to  unhappiness,  if  not  immedi 
ately,  yet  in  their  remote  effects.  Wrong  opin 
ions  and  views  tend  to  wrong  conduct,  and  wrong 
conduct  seeks  to  defend  or  excuse  itself  by  main 
taining  plausible  and  nicely-worded  opinions. 
These  are  the  consequences,  natural  and  inevita 
ble,  of  human  freedom  and  human  imperfection, 
the  bitter  fruits  of  the  tree  of  knowledge  of  good 
and  evil,  plucked  from  the  beginning,  and  harshly 
infused  into  the  mingled  cup  of  life.  Men  are  in 
a  state  of  discipline  ;  and  these  are  the  weaknesses, 
disorders,  and  rebellions  of  their  pupilage.  They 
are  in  training  for  that  heavenly  harmony  which 
is  the  end  of  the  Divine  government ;  and  these 
are  the  sad  discords  of  their  inexperience  and  per- 
verseness,  which  break  in  upon  the  universal  me 
lody,  and  disturb  the  pure  song  of  the  stars. 

Surrounded  on  all  sides  by  bad  principles,  false 
opinions,  and  doubtful  disputations,  what  then  is 
the  duty  of  the  sincere,  serious,  impartial  lover  of 
truth  ?  What  is  his  duty,  in  view  of  the  evils 
which  result  from  erroneous  doctrines,  and  in  re 
gard  to  those  who  inculcate  them  ?  It  plainly 


MILTON'S  PROSE  WORKS.  217 

consists  in  moral  courage  and  intrepidity  ;  in  af 
fording  a  fair  and  fearless  audience  to  all  proposi 
tions,  and  advancing  a  faithful  avowal  and  defence 
of  his  own  convictions  of  truth.  To  enjoin  silence 
by  authority,  or  attempt  to  enforce  it  by  penalties, 
on  those  who  would  proclaim  their  free  thoughts, 
whether  for  good  or  evil,  is  not  only  a  fruitless, 
but  an  unwise  and  an  unrighteous  expedient. 
The  endeavor  to  suppress  presumed  error  by  phy 
sical  power,  is  itself  an  error  of  uncommon  mag 
nitude  ;  as  great  as  any  which  it  would  suppress  ; 
and  one  which  the  world  is  beginning  to  get  rid  of, 
by  that  best  of  all  methods  of  suppression,  consent 
and  dearly-bought  experience.  Opinions  are  like 
certain  plants,  which  thrive,  and  spread,  and  weave 
their  roots  more  firmly  together,  by  being  trodden 
upon  and  used  roughly.  The  basket  which  the 
Corinthian  woman  set  upon  the  young  acanthus, 
was  speedily  overtopped  and  hidden  by  the  rank 
and  resolute  leaves  which  sprung  up  from  beneath 
it.  There  is  a  pride  in  man  which  always  rises 
against  pressure  ;  and  a  sympathy  in  man  which 
takes  the  part  of  an  oppressed  brother.  Besides, 
to  punish  error  is  only  to  proclaim  it,  and  to  pro 
claim  without  refuting  it.  Punishment  cannot 
reach  the  silent  and  secret  thoughts  of  men  ;  but 
that  which  is  punished  may  ;  and  that  which  is 
received  in  secret,  will  secretly  make  its  progress, 


2 1  8  MISCELLANIES. 

undermining  and  destroying,  like  a  poison  without 
its  antidote  ;  for  mere  force,  or  mere  denuncia 
tion,  is  no  antidote  for  disorder  of  the  mind. 

The  only  way  to  deal  with  error  is,  to  meet  it 
face  to  face  ;  to  examine  it  critically,  feature  by 
feature  ;  to  question  it  boldly,  and   to  answer  it 
fairly.     To  fly  from  it,  is  to  tempt  it  to  advance. 
To  fear  it,  is  to  acknowledge  its  power,  and  to 
increase  it ;   is  to  wrong,  moreover,  the  power  of 
truth  ;  to  misapprehend  the  very  nature  of  truth  ; 
to  doubt  the  reality  of  its  existence,  the   divin 
ity  of  its  origin,  and  the  strength  and   durabil 
ity  of  its  foundations  ;    to  give  up  the  world  to 
the  dominion  of  darkness,  and  the  reign  of  the 
evil  principle  ;  to  deny,  practically,  that  there  is 
anything  progressive  in  intellect,  or  useful  in  in 
vestigation,  or  conclusive  in  reason,  or  attainable 
in  knowledge.     What  is  it  that  we  fear  ?     Do  we 
fear  that  God  has  so  constituted  the  human  mind, 
in  relation  to  whatever  is  made  to  concern  it,  or 
come  before  it,  that  it  has  no  final  ability  to  dis 
cern  what  is   good  and  what   is  bad  ;    what  is 
stable  and  what  is  fleeting  ;   what  is  and  what  is 
not  ?     Do  we  fear  that  our  Creator  has  ordained 
such  an  affinity  between   error  and  the  rational 
part  of  those  whom  we  are  constrained  to  call  his 
rational  creatures,  that  the  two  agree  more  con 
stantly,  and   always  will  agree  more  constantly 


MILTON'S  PROSE  WORKS.  219 

and  lovingly  together,  than  will  the  latter  and 
truth  ?  Do  we  fear  that  error  will  naturally  bear 
examination  more  steadfastly  and  successfully  than 
truth,  or  that  the  human  mind  necessarily  sup 
ports  what  is  false,  with  more  ease  and  vigor  than 
what  is  real,  or  that  those  minds  which  espouse 
the  cause  of  evil,  are  constantly  stronger  than  those 
which  take  the  good  side,  or  that  vice  is  por 
tioned  with  such  convincing  arguments,  that  vir 
tue  cannot  answer  them  ?  Do  we  fear  these 
things  ?  Do  we  apprehend  that  this  is  the  course 
and  order  of  the  moral  world  ?  Then  ought  our 
life  to  be  one  perpetual  fear  ;  we  should  fear  the 
government  of  the  universe,  and  the  dispensations 
of  eternity. 

But  if  we  do  not  fear  that  man  is  made  more 
capable  and  susceptible  of  error  than  of  truth,  and 
that  error  is  endowed  from  above  with  a  perma 
nent  superiority  here  below,  then  error  is  not  to 
be  feared,  but  to  be  faced  and  opposed.  If  there 
is  any  falsehood  which  should  terrify  us,  it  is  that 
which  lives  in  our  own  houses,  and  speaks  from 
our  own  hearts  ;  and  even  that,  perhaps,  is  to  be 
handled  severely  rather  than  timidly  ;  but  that 
which  comes  from  without,  as  it  must  come,  and 
there  is  no  help  for  it,  so  let  it  come.  Let  the 
prophet  that  hath  a  dream,  tell  his  dream  ;  let  us 
hear  it,  and  know  what  it  is,  so  that  it  may  be 


220  MISCELLANIES. 

found  to  be  a  dream,  and  no  reality.  So  long  as 
men  will  proclaim  their  fancies,  and  other  men 
will  hear  them,  let  them  unburthen  themselves  ; 
and  let  them  not  disperse  their  spurious  ware 
abroad,  till  it  has  undergone  its  inspection,  and 
received  its  brand.  Error  is  a  disease  incident  to 
humanity,  and  we  cannot  fly  from  it ;  and  as 
there  are  no  means  of  general  prevention,  let  it 
develop  itself,  that  we  may  see  it  and  trace  it,  and 
steadily  administer  its  cure.  Fear  and  ignorance 
go  together  ;  and  those  who  timidly  shrink  from 
error,  are  in  the  way  of  losing  the  opportunity  of 
much  truth  ;  for  truth  is  often  descried  by  com 
parison,  and  the  manifestation  of  that,  which  among 
many  things  presented,  is  the  most  worthy.  By 
sifting  the  dust  we  discover  the  diamonds  ;  which, 
though  hidden  in  the  earth,  and  crusted  over  with 
earth,  are  diamonds  still. 

Let  every  ambitious  imagination,  therefore,  take 
its  own  course,  and  come  out  and  show  itself. 
And  let  not  its  consequence  be  needlessly  increas 
ed  by  a  vain  and  unreasonable  terror,  which  re 
fuses  to  confront  and  rebuke  it.  It  would  be  a 
pity,  indeed,  if  all  the  zeal,  and  all  the  courage, 
and  all  the  alertness,  were  to  be  exhibited  on  the 
wrong  side,  and  cowardice  and  torpor  alone  were 
to  be  seen  on  the  right. 

At  the  same  time  that  it  is  our  duty,  and  also 


MILTON'S  PROSE  WORKS.  221 

our  policy,  to  be  fearless  in  regarding  error,  it  is 
our  duty  to  be  intrepid  in  declaring  the  truth.  If 
truth  is  of  any  value,  we  should  maintain  it  as  if 
we  valued  it.  If  it  is  of  any  certain  benefit  to 
mankind,  we  should  proclaim  it,  as  the  well-wish 
ers  of  our  race.  If  it  is  the  cause  of  Heaven,  we 
should  plead  for  it  earnestly,  as  the  partakers  of  a 
spiritual  existence,  and  the  heirs  of  immortality. 
If  we  believe  that  infinite  wisdom  and  rectitude 
govern  the  world,  we  should  join  ourselves  to  its 
interests,  and  contend  for  its  rights,  as  for  the 
course  which  will  finally  and  completely  triumph. 
He  who  is  convinced  that  he  has  the  living  word 
within  his  bosom,  has  no  right  to  keep  it  shut  up 
there,  pining  and  drooping  for  air  and  light  and 
action.  It  must  go  forth  and  do  its  work,  which 
is  to  oppose  every  false  invention  of  man,  and 
bring  it  to  trial  and  to  condemnation.  He  who 
thinks  that  error  and  vice  are  destructive  of  the 
best  interests  of  society,  and  of  his  own  too,  as 
connected  with  and  forming  a  part  of  them,  what 
has  he  to  do,  but  to  be  the  faithful  advocate  of 
religion  and  virtue,  if  he  thinks  that  religion  and 
virtue  are  contrary  to  error  and  vice,  and  to  be 
preferred  before  them  ?  If  a  man  has  no  settled 
principles  of  right,  why  does  he  talk  about  error, 
or  even  pretend  to  fear  it  ?  Neither  error  nor 
truth  is  anything  to  him.  But  if  he  is  possessed 
19* 


222  MISCELLANIES. 

of  settled  principles,  why  does  he  suffer  fear,  or 
fashion,  or  any  motive  in  the  world,  to  shake  his 
confidence,  or  prevent  him  from  declaring  his  con 
victions  ? 

Even  in  questions  which  are  called  doubtful, 
because  they  divide  honest  and  well-meaning 
opinions,  the  lover  of  truth  is  to  pursue  the  same 
course,  whenever  he  has  taken  his  side  candidly 
and  with  understanding  ;  and  he  always  will  take 
his  side,  as  soon  as  he  is  satisfied  that  the  subject 
is  of  sufficient  importance  to  claim  his  decision. 
These  questions  generally  grow  less  and  less 
doubtful  every  day,  the  more  they  are  examined 
and  discussed,  and  the  more  liberally  they  are 
handled.  Experience  is  a  principal  test  of  truth  ; 
and  as  truth  is  founded  on  reality,  or  rather  is 
reality  itself,  it  will  sooner  or  later  be  made  mani 
fest  by  that  test.  Sooner  or  later  ;  for,  in  speak 
ing  of  so  long-lived  a  thing  as  opinion,  which  dies 
not  with  one  generation  of  men,  but  enjoys  a  spi 
ritual  and  transmitted  existence,  we  must  not  con 
fine  ourselves  to  short  periods  of  time,  but  extend 
our  view  far  behind  and  far  before,  —  back  even 
to  the  day  when  man  was  created,  and  forward 
to  any  limit  within  the  bounds  of  probability.  We 
are  too  apt  to  become  impatient,  when  we  cannot 
see  favorite  opinions  confirmed  in  our  own  life 
time.  Our  own  lifetime  is  but  a  moment ;  is  but 


223 


a  single  beat  of  the  pendulum  which  measures  out 
the  solemn  and  majestic  progress  of  the  ages. 
We  must  not  attach  so  much  importance  to  the 
period  of  our  life.  The  epochs  of  mind  and  mo 
rals  must  be  regarded  in  conjunction  with  the  life 
of  our  world  ;  nor  must  even  that  life  be  consid 
ered  as  a  long  one,  as  it  respects  that  part  of  it 
which  is  past.  The  days  of  its  years  have  as  yet, 
probably,  been  few,  in  comparison  with  those 
which  are  still  to  be  numbered.  In  the  mean 
time,  our  lives,  though  short,  compose  the  age  of 
the  world,  and  our  labors  and  inquiries,  by  their 
accumulation,  must  bring  about  the  world's  im 
provement,  and  add,  however  gradually,  to  its  ex 
perience.  The  duty  involves  a  struggle,  but  it  is 
not  therefore  to  be  avoided. 

Thus  thought  Milton ;  and  as  he  thought,  so  he 
acted.  Not  the  shadow  of  a  doubt  seems  ever  to 
have  passed  over  his  mind,  of  the  worth  and  the 
might  of  truth ;  and  he  scorned  with  a  lofty  in 
dignation  all  aids  to  her  cause,  but  those  which 
were  offered  by  God's  good  spirit,  and  man's  free 
mind.  "  For  who  knows  not,"  says  he,  "  that 
truth  is  strong,  next  to  the  Almighty  ;  she  needs 
no  policies,  nor  stratagems,  nor  licensings,  to  make 
her  victorious  ;  those  are  the  shifts  and  the  de 
fences  that  error  uses  against  her  power  ;  give 
her  but  room?  and  do  not  bind  her  when  she 


224  MISCELLANIES. 

sleeps  ;  for  then  she  speaks  not  true,  as  the  old 
Proteus  did,  who  spake  oracles  only  when  he  was 
caught  and  bound." 

With  these  convictions-,  Milton  never  hesitated 
in  his  course.     Living  in  a  time  of  great  mental 
as  well  as  physical  conflict  and  distraction,  and 
conscious  of  the  talents  which,  like  powerful  en 
gines  of  warfare,  had  been  given  into  his  trust,  he 
plunged  into  the  mid  battle  of  political  and  theo 
logical  controversy,  as  if  it  were  at  once  his  place 
and  his  privilege  to  contend  for  the  rights  of  man 
kind.     Though  he  loved  peace,  he  loved   truth 
more  ;  he  loved  the  souls  of  men  ;   "  which  is  the 
dearest  love,  and  stirs  up  to  the  noblest  jealousy." 
He  preferred  his  duty  before  his  rest.     He  knew 
the  toil  and  danger  which  awaited  him ;  but  he 
knew  also  that  he  had  taken  his  part  in  "  the  race 
where  that  immortal  garland  is  to  be  run  for,  not 
without  dust  and  heat."     His  great  soul  was  in 
itself  gentle  and  open  as  day,  and  in  gentler  times 
would  not  have  appeared  in  so  warlike  a  guise. 
He  would  willingly  have  framed  his  measures  to 
the  concords  of  peace  ;  "  but,"  to  use  again  his 
own  matchless  speech,  "  when  God  commands  to 
take  the  trumpet,  and  blow  a  dolorous  or  a  jarring 
blast,  it  lies  not  in  man's  will  what  he  shall  say, 
or  what  he  shall  conceal."     The  voice  of  duty, 
and  the  testimony  of  conscience,  were  to  him  the 


MILTON'S  PROSE  WORKS.  225 

command  of  God  ;  he  did  take  the  trumpet,  and 
blow  a  blast,  "  of  which  all  Europe  rang  from  side 
to  side ; "  a  blast  which  even  yet  is  not  silent,  but 
has  come  echoing  down  from  year  to  year  to  us 
of  the  present,  and  will  still  go  sounding  on,  clear 
toned  and  thrilling,  through  the  unknown  depths 
of  future  time,  and  from  region  to  region  of  the 
globe,  till  nations  will  hear  and  be  roused  up,  that 
now  are  dead,  and  the  heart  of  the  whole  world 
shall  beat,  like  the  heart  of  a  single  champion,  at 
the  summons  of  truth  and  liberty. 

The  two  principal  objects  of  Milton's  attack, 
were  the  dignities,  dogmas,  and  ceremonies  of 
English  prelacy  and  kingly  forms  of  government. 
In  his  victorious  career  he  rnet  and  overthrew  all 
arguments  from  prescription,  antiquity,  and  a  false 
prudence  and  caution.  He  was  awed  by  nothing 
human  ;  he  despised  all  temporizing  and  halfway 
expedients  in  matters  of  great  moment,  all  timid 
recipes  of  confections  and  potherbs  for  violent  and 
critical  disorder  ;  and  he  was  not  afraid  of  going 
too  far  in  the  direction  of  truth,  or  of  announcing 
her  dictates  too  boldly. 

His  opinions  were  evidently  in  advance  of  the 
age,  —  too  much  so  to  be  generally  received. 
They  are  even  now  in  advance  of  the  wrorld,  and 
for  a  long  time  to  come,  perhaps,  will  continue  to 
be  so.  On  the  subjects  of  toleration,  religious 


226  MISCELLANIES. 

liberty,  civil  and  political  rights,  education,  and 
the  duties  and  prospects  of  men,  he  will  forever 
be  on  an  equal  line  with  the  most  improved  age  ; 
for  he  marched  forward  at  once  to  the  utmost 
boundary  of  truth.  His  treatise  on  the  "  Doctrine 
and  Discipline  of  Divorce,"  notwithstanding  the 
side  which  it  takes,  is  in  its  whole  tendency  favor 
able  to  purity  and  virtue.  The  domestic  unhap- 
piness  with  which  he  himself  was  afflicted,  led  him 
to  consider  this  subject,  and  no  doubt  had  its  in 
fluence  on  his  views  of  it.  He  convinced  himself, 
and  endeavored  to  convince  others,  that  divorce 
should  be  granted  on  the  grounds  of  opposition  of 
sentiments,  habits,  temper,  and  feelings  between 
the  parties.  But  with  whatever  learning  and  fer 
vor  and  skill  he  maintained  this  opinion,  the  con 
victions  of  the  wisest,  most  virtuous,  and  most  lib 
eral  of  mankind  have  been  decidedly  against  it, 
and  have  pronounced  it  false.  We  look  on  this 
instance  as  a  remarkable  proof  of  the  grand  prin 
ciple  which  pervades  all  his  works,  that  truth  will 
at  last  prevail.  It  has  prevailed  over  eloquence 
like  his, 


THE   SEA. 


and  thou,  majestic  main. 


A  secret  world  of  wonders  in  thyself, 

Sound  his  stupendous  praise,  whose  greater  voice 

Or  bids  you  roar,  or  bids  your  roarings  fall. 

THOMSON. 

"  THE  sea  is  his,  and  he  made  it,"  cries  the 
Psalmist  of  Israel,  in  one  of  those  bursts  of  en 
thusiasm  and  devotion,  in  which  he  so  often  ex 
presses  the  whole  of  a  vast  subject  by  a  few  sim 
ple  words.  Whose  else  indeed  could  it  be,  and 
by  whom  else  could  it  have  been  made  ?  Who 
else  can  heave  its  tides,  and  appoint  its  bounds  ? 
Who  else  can  urge  its  mighty  waves  to  madness 
with  the  breath  and  the  wings  of  the  tempest  ;  and 
then  speak  to  it  again  in  a  master's  accents,  and 
bid  it  be  still  ?  Who  else  could  have  poured  out 
its  magnificent  fulness  round  the  solid  land,  and 

"  Laid  as  in  a  storehouse  safe  its  watery  treasures  by  ?  " 


Who  elsP  could  have  pcupled  It  With  it 

inhabitants,  and  caused  it  to  bring  forth  its  various 


228  MISCELLANIES. 

productions,  and  filled  it  from  its  deepest  bed  to 
its  expanded  surface,  filled  it  from  its  centre  to  its 
remotest  shores,  filled  it  to  the  brim  with  beauty, 
and  mystery,  and  power  ?  Majestic  ocean  !  Glo 
rious  sea  !  No  created  being  rules  thee,  or  made 
thee.  Thou  hearest  but  one  voice,  and  that  is  the 
Lord's  ;  thou  obeyest  but  one  arm,  and  that  is  the 
Almighty's.  The  ownership  and  the  workman 
ship  are  God's  ;  thou  art  his,  and  he  made  thee. 

"  The  sea  is  his,  and  he  made  it."  It  bears  the 
strong  impress  of  his  greatness,  his  wisdom,  and 
his  love.  It  speaks  to  us  of  God  with  the  voice 
of  all  its  waters  ;  it  may  lead  us  to  God  by  all  the 
influences  of  its  nature.  How,  then,  can  we  be 
otherwise  than  profitably  employed  wrhile  we  are 
looking  on  this  bright  and  broad  mirror  of  the 
Deity  ?  The  sacred  scriptures  are  full  of  refer 
ences  to  it,  and  itself  is  full  of  religion  and  God. 

"  The  sea  is  his,  and  he  made  it."  Its  majesty 
is  of  God.  What  is  there  more  sublime  than  the 
trackless,  desert,  all  surrounding,  unfathomable 
sea  ?  What  is  there  more  peacefully  sublime  than 
the  calm,  gently  heaving,  silent  sea  ?  What  is 
there  more  terribly  sublime  than  the  angry,  dash 
ing,  foaming  sea  ?  Power,  resistless,  overwhelm 
ing  power,  is  its  attribute  and  its  expression, 
wKothor  in  the  careless,  conscious  gnmdeur  of  its 
deep  rest,  or  the  wild  tumult  of  its  excited  wrath. 


THE    SEA.  229 

It  is  awful  when  its  crested  waves  rise  up  to  make 
a  compact  with  the  black  clouds,  and  the  howling 
winds,  and  the  thunder,  and  the  thunderbolt,  and 
they  sweep  on  in  the  joy  of  their  dread  alliance, 
to  do  the  Almighty's  bidding.  And  it  is  awful, 
too,  when  it  stretches  its  broad  level  out  to  meet 
in  quiet  union  the  bended  sky,  and  show  in  the 
line  of  meeting  the  vast  rotundity  of  the  world. 
There  is  majesty  in  its  wide  expanse,  separating 
and  enclosing  the  great  continents  of  the  earth, 
occupying  two-thirds  of  the  whole  surface  of  the 
globe,  penetrating  the  land  with  its  bays  and  se 
condary  seas,  and  receiving  the  constantly  pour 
ing  tribute  of  every  river,  of  every  shore.  There 
is  majesty  in  its  fulness,  never  diminishing,  and 
never  increasing.  There  is  majesty  in  its  integrity, 
for  its  whole  vast  substance  is  uniform  ;  in  its  local 
unity,  for  there  is  but  one  ocean,  and  the  inhabi 
tants  of  any  one  maritime  spot  may  visit  the  in 
habitants  of  any  other  in  the  wide  world.  Its 
depth  is  sublime  ;  who  can  sound  it  ?  Its  strength 
is  sublime  ;  what  fabric  of  man  can  resist  it  ?  Its 
voice  is  sublime,  whether  in  the  prolonged  song 
of  its  ripple  or  the  stern  music  of  its  roar  ;  whether 
it  utters  its  hollow  and  melancholy  tones  within  a 
labyrinth  of  wave- worn  caves,  or  thunders  at  the 
base  of  some  huge  promontory,  or  beats  against 
a  toiling  vessel's  sides,  lulling  the  voyager  to  rest 
20 


230  MISCELLANIES. 

with  the  strains  of  its  wild  monotony,  or  dies 
away  with  the  calm  and  dying  twilight,  in  gentle 
murmurs  on  some  sheltered  shore.  What  sight  is 
there  mope  magnificent  than  the  quiet  or  the  stormy 
sea  ?  What  music  is  there,  however  artful,  which 
can  vie  with  the  natural  and  changeful  melodies 
of  the  resounding  sea  ? 

"  The  sea  is  his,  and  he  made  it."  Its  beauty 
is  of  God.  It  possesses  it,  in  richness,  of  its  own  ; 
it  borrows  it  from  earth,  and  air,  and  heaven. 
The  clouds  lend  it  the  various  dyes  of  their  ward 
robe,  and  throw  down  upon  it  the  broad  masses 
of  their  shadows,  as  they  go  sailing  and  sweeping 
by.  The  rainbow  laves  in  it  its  many-colored  feet. 
The  sun  loves  to  visit  it,  and  the  moon,  and  the 
glittering  brotherhood  of  planets  and  stars  ;  for 
they  delight  themselves  in  its  beauty.  The  sun 
beams  return  from  it  in  showers  of  diamonds  and 
glances  of  fire  ;  the  moonbeams  find  in  it  a  path 
way  of  silver,  where  they  dance  to  and  fro,  with 
the  breeze  and  the  waves,  through  the  livelong 
night.  It  has  a  light,  too,  of  its  own  —  a  soft  and 
sparkling  light,  rivalling  the  stars ;  and  often  does 
the  ship  which  cuts  its  surface,  leave  streaming 
behind  a  milky  way  of  dim  and  uncertain  lustre, 
like  that  which  is  shining  dimly  above.  It  har 
monizes  in  its  forms  and  sounds  both  with  the 
night  and  the  day.  It  cheerfully  reflects  the  light, 
and  it  unites  solemnly  with  the  darkness.  It  im- 


THE    SEA.  231 

parts  sweetness  to  the  music  of  men,  and  grandeur 
to  the  thunder  of  heaven.  What  landscape  is  so 
beautiful  as  one  upon  the  borders  of  the  sea  ? 
The  spirit  of  its  loveliness  is  from  the  waters,  where 
it  dwells  and  rests,  singing  its  spells,  and  scatter 
ing  its  charms  on  all  the  coast.  What  rocks  and 
cliffs  are  so  glorious  as  those  which  are  washed  by 
the  chafing  sea  ?  What  groves,  and  fields,  and 
dwellings  are  so  enchanting  as  those  which  stand 
by  the  reflecting  sea  ? 

If  we  could  see  the  great  ocean  as  it  can  be 
seen  by  no  mortal  eye,  beholding  at  one  view 
what  we  are  now  obliged  to  visit  in  detail  and  spot 
by  spot ;  if  we  could,  from  a  flight  far  higher  than 
the  sea  eagle's,  and  with  a  sight  more  keen  and 
comprehensive  than  his,  view  the  immense  surface 
of  the  deep  all  spread  out  beneath  us  like  a  uni 
versal  chart,  what  an  infinite  variety  such  a  scene 
would  display  !  Here  a  storm  would  be  raging, 
the  thunder  bursting,  the  waters  boiling,  and  rain 
and  foam  and  fire  all  mingling  together  ;  and  here, 
next  to  this  scene  of  magnificent  confusion,  we 
should  see  the  bright  blue  waves  glittering  in  the 
sun,  and  while  the  brisk  breezes  flew  over  them, 
clapping  their  hands  for  very  gladness  —  for  they 
do  clap  their  hands,  and  justify  by  the  life,  and 
almost  individual  animation  which  they  exhibit, 
that  remarkable  figure  of  the  Psalmist.  Here, 


232  MISCELLANIES. 

again,  on  this  self-same  ocean,  we  should  behold 
large  tracts  where  there  was  neither  tempest  nor 
breeze,  but  a  dead  calm,  breathless,  noiseless,  and, 
were  it  not  for  that  swell  of  the  sea  which  never 
rests,  motionless.  Here  we  should  see  a  cluster 
of  green  islands,  set  like  jewels,  in  the  midst  of  its 
bosom  ;  and  there  we  should  see  broad  shoals  and 
gray  rocks,  fretting  the  billows  and  threatening 
the  mariner.  "  There  go  the  ships,"  the  white- 
robed  ships,  some  on  this  course,  and  others  on  the 
opposite  one  ;  some  just  approaching  the  shore, 
and  some  just  leaving  it ;  some  in  fleets,  and  oth 
ers  in  solitude  ;  some  swinging  lazily  in  a  calm, 
and  some  driven  and  tossed,  and  perhaps  over 
whelmed  by  the  storm ;  some  for  traffic,  and  some 
for  state  ;  and  some  in  peace,  and  others,  alas  !  in 
war.  Let  us  follow  one,  and  we  should  see  it 
propelled  by  the  steady  wind  of  the  tropics,  and 
inhaling  the  almost  visible  odors  which  diffuse 
themselves  around  the  spice  islands  of  the  East ; 
let  us  observe  the  track  of  another,  and  we  should 
behold  it  piercing  the  cold  barriers  of  the  North, 
struggling  among  hills  and  fields  of  ice,  contend 
ing  with  winter  in  his  own  everlasting  dominion, 
striving  to  touch  that  unattained,  solemn,  hermit 
point  of  the  globe,  which  ships  may  perhaps  never 
visit,  and  where  the  foot  of  man,  all  daring  and 
indefatigable  as  it  is,  may  never  tread.  Nor  are 


THE    SEA.  233 

the  ships  of  man  the  only  travellers  whom  we 
shall  perceive  on  this  mighty  map  of  the  ocean. 
Flocks  of  sea  birds  are  passing  and  repassing, 
diving  for  their  food,  or  for  pastime,  migrating 
from  shore  to  shore  with  unwearied  wing  and 
undeviating  instinct,  or  wheeling  and  swarming 
round  the  rocks  which  they  make  alive  and  vocal 
by  their  numbers  and  their  clanging  cries. 

How  various,  how  animated,  how  full  of  inter 
est,  is  the  survey  !  We  might  behold  such  a  scene, 
were  we  enabled  to  behold  it,  at  almost  any  mo 
ment  of  time  on  the  vast  and  varied  ocean  ;  and 
it  would  be  a  much  more  diversified  and  beautiful 
one  ;  for  I  have  spoken  but  of  a  few  particulars, 
and  of  those  but  slightly.  I  have  not  spoken  of 
the  thousand  forms  in  which  the  sea  meets  the 
shore,  of  the  sands  and  the  cliffs,  of  the  arches  and 
grottos,  of  the  cities  and  the  solitudes,  which  oc 
cur  in  the  beautiful  irregularity  of  its  outline  ;  nor 
of  the  constant  tides,  nor  the  boiling  whirlpools 
and  eddies,  nor  the  currents  and  streams,  which 
are  dispersed  throughout  its  surface.  The  variety 
of  the  sea,  notwithstanding  the  uniformity  of  its 
substance,  is  ever  changing  and  endless. 

+•"  The  sea  is  his,  and  he  made  it."     And  when 
he  made  it,  he  ordained  that  it  should  be  the  ele 
ment  and  dwelling-place  of  multitudes  of  living 
beings,  and  the  treasury  of  many  riches.     How 
20* 


234  MISCELLANIES. 

populous  and  wealthy  and  bounteous  are  the 
depths  of  the  sea  !  How  many  are  the  tribes 
which  find  in  them  abundant  sustenance,  and  fur 
nish  abundant  sustenance  to  man.  The  whale 
roams  through  the  deep  like  its  lord  ;  but  he  is 
forced  to  surrender  his  vast  bulk  to  the  use  of  man. 
The  lesser  tribes  of  the  finny  race  have  each  their 
peculiar  habits  and  haunts,  but  they  are  found  out 
by  the  ingenuity  of  man,  and  turned  to  his  own 
purposes.  The  line  and  the  hook  and  the  net  are 
dropped  and  spread  to  delude  them  and  bring 
them  up  from  the  watery  chambers  where  they 
were  roving  in  conscious  security.  How  strange 
it  is  that  the  warm  food  which  comes  upon  our 
tables,  and  the  substances  which  furnish  our  streets 
and  dwellings  with  cheerful  light,  should  be  drawn 
up  from  the  cold  and  dark  recesses  of  the  sea ! 

We  shall  behold  new  wonders  and  riches  when 
we  investigate  the  sea-shore.  We  shall  find  both 
beauty  for  the  eye  and  food  for  the  body,  in  the 
varieties  of  shell-fish,  which  adhere  in  myriads  to 
the  rocks,  or  form  their  close  dark  burrows  in  the 
sands.  In  some  parts  of  the  world  we  shall  see 
those  houses  of  stone,  which  the  little  coral  insect 
rears  up  with  patient  industry  from  the  bottom-of 
the  waters,  till  they  grow  into  formidable  rocks, 
and  broad  forests  whose  branches  never  wave,  and 
whose  leaves  never  fall.  In  other  parts  we  shall 


THE    SEA.  235 

see  those  "  pale  glistening  pearls "  which  adorn 
the  crowns  of  princes,  and  are  woven  in  the  hair 
of  beauty,  extorted  by  the  restless  grasp  of  man 
from  the  hidden  stores  of  ocean.  And,  spread 
round  every  coast,  there  are  beds  of  flowers  and 
thickets  of  plants,  which  the  dew  does  not  nourish, 
and  which  man  has  not  sown,  nor  cultivated,  nor 
reaped  ;  but  which  seem  to  belong  to  the  floods 
alone,  and  the  denizens  of  the  floods,  until  they 
are  thrown  up  by  the  surges,  and  we  discover  that 
even  the  dead  spoils  of  the  fields  of  ocean  may 
fertilize  and  enrich  the  fields  of  earth.  They  have 
a  life,  and  a  nourishment,  and  an  economy  of  their 
own,  and  we  know  little  of  them,  except  that  they 
are  there  in  their  briny  nurseries,  reared  up  into 
luxuriance  by  what  would  kill,  like  a  mortal  poi 
son,  the  plants  of  the  land. 

"  There,  with  its  waving  blade  of  green. 

The  sea-flag  streams  through  the  silent  water. 
And  the  crimson  leaf  of  the  dulse  is  seen 
To  blush  like  a  banner  bathed  in  slaughter. 

"  There,  with  a  light  and  easy  motion, 

The  fan  coral  sweeps  through  the  clear  deep  sea ; 
And  the  yellow  and  scarlet  tufts  of  ocean 
Are  bending  like  corn  on  the  upland  lea." 

I  have  not  told  half  of  the  riches  of  the  sea. 
How  can  I  count  the  countless,  or  describe  as  they 


236 


MISCELLANIES. 


ought  to  be  described,  those  companies  of  living 
and  lifeless  things  which  fill  the  waters,  and  which 
it  would  take  a  volume  barely  to  enumerate  and 
name  ?  But  how  can  we  give  our  minds  in  any 
degree  to  this  subject ;  how  can  we  reflect  on  a 
part  only  of  the  treasures  of  the  seas  ;  how  can 
we  lend  but  a  few  moments  to  the  consideration 
of  the  majesty  and  beauty,  the  variety  and  the 
fulness  of  the  ocean,  without  raising  our  regards 
in  adoration  to  the  Almighty  Creator,  and  exclaim 
ing,  with  one  of  the  sublimest  of  poets,  who  felt 
nature  like  a  poet,  and  whose  divine  strains  ought 
to  be  familiar  with  us  all,  "  O  Lord,  how  mani 
fold  are  thy  works  !  in  wisdom  hast  thou  made 
them  all ;  the  earth  is  full  of  thy  riches  ;  so  is  this 
great  and  wide  sea,  wherein  are  things  creeping 
innumerable,  both  small  and  great  beasts.  There 
go  the  ships  ;  there  is  that  leviathan  whom  thou 
hast  made  to  play  therein.  These  wait  all  upon 
thee,  that  thou  mayst  give  them  their  meat  in  due 
season.  That  thou  givest  them  they  gather ;  thou 
openest  thine  hand,  they  are  filled  with  good." 

We  must  not  omit  to  consider  the  utility  of  the 
sea  ;  its  utility,  I  mean,  not  only  as  it  furnishes  a 
dwelling  and  sustenance  to  an  infinite  variety  and 
number  of  inhabitants,  and  an  important  part  of 
the  support  of  man,  but  in  its  more  general  rela 
tions  to  the  whole  globe  of  the  world.  It  cools 


THE    SEA.  237 

the  air  for  us  in  summer,  and  warms  it  in  winter. 
It  is  probable  that  the  very  composition  of  the  at 
mosphere  is  beneficially  affected  by  combining 
with  the  particles  which  it  takes  up  from  the  ocean  ; 
but,  however  this  may  be,  there  is  little  or  no 
doubt,  that  were  it  not  for  the  immense  face  of 
waters  writh  which  the  atmosphere  comes  in  con 
tact,  it  would  be  hardly  respirable  for  the  dwellers 
on  the  earth.  Then,  again,  it  affords  an  easier, 
and,  on  the  whole,  perhaps,  a  safer,  medium  of 
communication  and  conveyance  between  nation 
and  nation,  than  can  be  found,  for  equal  distances, 
on  the  land.  It  is  also  an  effectual  barrier  between 
nations,  preserving  to  a  great  degree  the  weak 
from  invasion  and  the  virtuous  from  contamination. 
In  many  other  respects  it  is  no  doubt  useful  to  the 
great  whole,  though  in  how  many  we  are  not 
qualified  to  judge.  What  we  do  see  is  abundant 
testimony  to  the  wisdom  and  goodness  of  Him  who 
in  the  beginning  "  gathered  the  waters  together 
unto  one  place." 

There  is  mystery  in  the  sea.  There  is  mys 
tery  in  its  depths.  It  is  unfathomed,  and  per 
haps  unfathomable.  Who  can  tell,  who  shall 
know,  how  near  its  pits  run  down  to  the  central 
core  of  the  world  ?  Who  can  tell  what  wells, 
what  fountains,  are  there,  to  which  the  fountains  of 
the  earth  are  in  comparison  but  drops  ?  Who 


238  MISCELLANIES. 

• 

shall  say  whence  the  ocean  derives  those  inex 
haustible  supplies  of  salt,  which  so  impregnate  its 
waters,  that  all  the  rivers  of  the  earth,  pouring 
into  it  from  the  time  of  the  creation,  have  not  been 
able  to  freshen  them  ?  What  undescribed  mon 
sters,  what  unimaginable  shapes,  may  be  roving 
in  the  profoundest  places  of  the  sea,  never  seek 
ing,  and  perhaps  from  their  nature  unable  to  seek, 
the  upper  waters,  and  expose  themselves  to  the 
gaze  of  man  !  "What  glittering  riches,  what  heaps 
of  gold,  what  stores  of  gems,  there  must  be  scat 
tered  in  lavish  profusion  on  the  ocean's  lowest 
bed  !  What  spoils  from  all  climates,  what  works 
of  art  from  all  lands,  have  been  ingulfed  by  the 
insatiable  and  reckless  waves  !  Who  shall  go 
down  to  examine  and  reclaim  this  uncounted  and 
idle  wealth  ?  Who  bears  the  keys  of  the  deep  ? 
And,  oh !  yet  more  affecting  to  the  heart  and 
mysterious  to  the  mind,  what  companies  of  human 
beings  are  locked  up  in  that  wide,  weltering,  un 
searchable  grave  of  the  sea  !  Where  are  the 
bodies  of  those  lost  ones,  over  whom  the  melan 
choly  waves  alone  have  been  chanting  requiem  ? 
What  shrouds  were  wrapped  round  the  limbs  of 
beauty,  and  of  manhood,  and  of  placid  infancy, 
when  they  were  laid  on  the  dark  floor  of  that  se 
cret  tomb  ?  Where  are  the  bones,  the  relics  of  the 
brave  and  the  fearful,  the  good  and  the  bad,  the 


THE    SEA.  239 

parent,  the  child,  the  wife,  the  husband,  the  bro 
ther,  the  sister,  and  lover,  which  have  been  tossed 
and  scattered  and  buried  by  the  washing,  wasting, 
wandering  sea  ?  The  journeying  winds  may  sigh, 
as  year  after  year  they  pass  over  their  beds.  The 
solitary  rain-cloud  may  weep  in  darkness  over  the 
mingled  remains  which  He  strewed  in  that  un 
wonted  cemetery.  But  who  shall  tell  the  bereaved 
to  what  spot  their  affections  may  cling  ?  And 
where  shall  human  tears  be  shed  throughout  that 
solemn  sepulchre  ?  It  is  mystery  all.  When  shall 
it  be  resolved  ?  Who  shall  find  it  out  ?  Who, 
but  he  to  whom  the  wildest  waves  listen  rever 
ently,  and  to  whom  all  nature  bows ;  he  who  shall 
one  day  speak,  and  be  heard  in  ocean's  profound- 
est  caves ;  to  whom  the  deep,  even  the  lowest 
deep,  shall  give  up  all  its  dead,  when  the  sun  shall 
sicken,  and  the  earth  and  the  isles  shall  languish, 
and  the  heavens  be  rolled  together  like  a  scroll, 
and  there  shall  be  "  no  more  sea." 


FEMALE  LITERATURE. 


WE  hold  it  to  be  a  fortunate  thing  for  any  coun 
try,  that  a  portion  of  its  literature  should  fall  into 
the  hands  of  the  female  sex  ;  because  their  influ 
ence,  in  any  walk  of  letters,  is  almost  sure  to  be 
powerful  and  good.  This  influence  appears  to  us 
to  be  so  peculiar  in  its  nature,  and  so  important 
in  its  action,  that  we  venture  to  demand  the  at 
tention  of  our  readers  to  some  remarks  upon  it, 
however  unworthy  of  the  subject  our  exposition 
may  be. 

To  speak  first  of  the  influence  of  female  litera 
ture  on  females  themselves,  we  presume  that  the 
mere  fact  of  the  existence  of  such  a  literature  pro 
duces  a  very  sensible  effect  on  the  mental  charac 
ter  of  those,  whom,  if  it  were  only  for  gallantry's 
sake,  we  must  call  the  best  part  of  our  race.  A 
woman  feels  a  laudable  pride  in  the  knowledge 
that  a  sister  has  distinguished  herself  in  an  intel 
lectual  career ;  has  won  a  prize  in  the  competition 
of  mind  ;  has  vindicated  for  her  sex  that  equality 


FEMALE    LITERATURE.  24L 

with  the  other,  which  has  been  both  doubted  and 
denied.  Her  success  is  an  argument  which  can 
be  wielded  at  pleasure,  and  doubtless  with  pleas 
ure,  against  all  who  would  underrate  feminine 
capacity.  And  it  is  something  more  and  better 
than  an  argument.  It  is  a  stimulus  ;  acting  on 
the  generous  ambition  of  the  whole  sex  ;  prompt 
ing  all  to  an  exertion  of  their  highest  faculties  ; 
inducing  a  general  disposition  to  read,  to  study, 
to  think  ;  making  something  desirable  beside  per 
sonal  attraction,  and  something  enviable,  which 
shall  last  longer,  and  be  more  attainable,  than 
beauty.  The  objects  of  pursuit  will  be  exalted 
and  refined.  The  consciousness  of  power  will 
produce  self-respect,  and  self-respect  will  lead  to 
improvement. 

Nor  will  this  be  the  end.  Woman,  at  the  same 
time  that  she  is  thus  raised  in  her  own  estimation, 
will  be  necessarily  lifted  up  in  the  good  opinion  of 
man.  He  will  acknowledge  her  claims  on  his  re 
spect,  for  the  sake  of  the  proofs  she  has  offered  of 
her  spiritual  endowments  ;  and  his  behavior  will 
tell  her  that  he  regards  her  neither  as  the  queen 
nor  the  plaything  of  an  hour,  but  as  the  real  com 
panion  of  his  life.  Then  look  at  the  happy  light 
of  this  sentiment,  as  it  is  reflected  back  on  the 
man.  How  much  his  own  worth  is  increased,  by 

21 


242  MISCELLANIES. 

he  better  opinions  and  more  respectful  feelings 
which  he  is  obliged  to  entertain  towards  woman, 
and  by  the  deportment  and  conduct  which  will  be 
the  natural  result  of  those  opinions  and  feelings. 
How  much  more  estimable,  useful,  enlightened, 
he  is  like  to  be  with  an  accomplished  fellow-crea 
ture,  than  with  a  brainless  idol  in  his  house  and 
in  his  bosom.  How  different  a  being  must  man 
be,  according  as  he  is  united  to  a  companion,  or 
tied  to  a  plaything  ! 

And  who  perceives  not  that  the  influence  of 
woman,  thus  stimulated  and  directed,  extends  yet 
further,  and  acts  on  another  generation ;  on  the  fu 
ture  men  and  the  future  women  who  are  now  infants 
under  her  care  ?  Who  can  estimate  the  power  of 
a  mother  over  the  mind  of  her  offspring ;  and  who 
will  say,  that  this  power  will  not  be  exerted  with 
far  happier  prospects  and  probable  consequences, 
if  she  is  capable  of  becoming  the  instructer,  than 
if  she  is  only  the  nurse  of  her  child  ? 

If  we  have  reasoned  justly,  it  follows  that  the 
successful  literary  efforts  of  a  few  females,  have  a 
direct  tendency  to  raise  the  whole  mass  of  human 
intellect,  in  a  manner,  and  to  a  degree,  which 
could  not  otherwise  be  accomplished,  and  which 
'are  not  to  be  estimated  by  common  rules  of  cal 
culation.  That  some  bad  consequences  may  fol 
low  a  sudden  taste  or  fashion  for  literature,  is  nei- 


FEMALE   LITERATURE.  243 

ther  to  be  denied  nor  wondered  at.  That  two  or 
three  females  may  make  themselves  exceedingly 
troublesome  to  their  acquaintance  by  the  annoying 
perseverance  of  their  high  discourse  at  all  times 
and  tides  ;  that  a  few  more  may  prove  too  often 
and  too  glaringly  how  little  good  their  reading  has 
done  them,  by  the  questions  they  ask  and  the  an 
swers  they  give ;  and  that  a  very  few  indeed  may 
culpably  and  ruinously  neglect  their  domestic  du 
ties  for  the  circulating  library  or  the  goose-quill, 
are  matters  of  undoubted  fact  and  sad  experience  ; 
but  in  a  general  view  of  the  subject,  their  impor 
tance  is  inconsiderable.  They  are  hardly  worth 
an  estimation,  when  we  are  weighing  the  quantity 
of  good  with  which  they  come  mixed  up,  the  un 
avoidable  refuse  and  dust.  Who  will  be  so  un- 
courteous  and  ill-natured  as  to  refuse  to  make  for 
them  a  due  allowance  ?  Who  so  perverse  as  to 
prefer  a  stupid  and  stationary  ignorance  without 
these  evils,  to  a  state  of  diffused  cultivation  and 
intelligence  with  them  ?  Will  any  one  forego  all 
the  advantages  which  must  necessarily  accrue  to 
himself  and  society,  from  the  intellectual  improve 
ment  of  those  who  sustain  the  high  and  responsi 
ble  relations  of  wives  and  mothers,  merely  through 
the  fear  of  a  little  pedantry  or  pretension  ?  And 
is  pretension  confined  to  one  sex  alone  ?  Are 
there  no  male  pretenders  ?  Are  all  the  smatterers 


244  MISCELLANIES. 

and  idlers  in  literature  women  ?  Not  if  our  ears 
have  given  us  a  true  report  of  the  matter.  Listen 
to  a  beau  and  a  belle  discussing  one  of  Sir  Wal 
ter's  novels,  or  mayhap  some  graver  book  or  sub 
ject,  during  a  morning  call,  or  the  pauses  of  a 
cotillon ;  and  you  will  find,  where  both  parties 
are  not  on  a  melancholy  equality,  that,  half  the 
time  at  least,  the  advantage  in  judgment,  discrimi 
nation,  taste,  and  pertinent  remark,  will  be  on  the 
side  of  the  fair  one.  Throw  us  into  promiscuous 
society  anywhere,  and  for  an  hour's  literary  talk 
we  are  quite  willing  to  take  our  chance  with  the 
ladies.  The  truth  is,  that  wherever  literature  is  at 
all  in  vogue,  there  will  be  literary  pretenders  and 
literary  nothings  ;  but  the  gentlemen  will  furnish 
a  full  quota  of  both. 

We  have  not  yet  spoken  of  the  character  of  fe 
male  literature,  but  only  of  its  existence  ;  for  its 
existence  alone,  whatever  may  be  its  character 
and  objects,  is  capable  of  exerting,  and  does  exert, 
all  the  influences  which  have  already  been  noticed. 
A  Carter  and  a  Dacier  may  exalt  the  whole  men 
tal  standard  of  the  sex  to  which  they  belong,  al 
though  few  or  none  of  those  who  feel  the  honor 
of  their  celebrity  may  be  able  to  enter  into  their 
studies,  and  examine  the  grounds  of  their  repu 
tation  as  classical  scholars.  It  is  enough  that 
their  merit  is  allowed  and  respected ;  enough 


FEMALE    LITERATURE.  245 

that  their  fame  is  shared  with  their  sex,  that  emu 
lation  is  kindled,  and  that  attention  is  directed  to 
intellectual  acquisitions,  employments,  and  pleas 
ures. 

But  when  the  impetus  has  been  given,  and  the 
noble  pride  of  mind  is  brought  into  action ;  when 
an  authoress  is  no  longer  a  rarity,  and  many  a 
titlepage  has  borne  a  female  name,  it  will  then  ap 
pear,  that  female  literature  has  its  proper  walks  ; 
that  it  is  peculiar  in  its  nature  and  distinct  in  its 
influence  ;  and  it  will  appear,  too,  that  these  walks 
are  exactly  those  in  which  the  greatest  moral 
power  may  manifest  and  most  directly  exert  itself. 
Into  the  paths  of  abstruse  learning  few  of  the  sex 
will  bend  their  steps.  Their  situation,  habits,  and 
feelings  lead  them  not  there.  They  will  be  found 
in  greener  and  more  pleasant  places,  whither  their 
own  inclinations  and  capabilities  will  most  natu 
rally  conduct  them,  and  where  their  enchantments 
will  exercise  the  most  potent  sway.  A  single 
glance  at  the  library  of  female  writers,  wrhich,  by 
the  way,  is  now  a  large  as  well  as  a  respectable 
one,  will  satisfy  us,  that  it  comprises  two  main  di 
visions  ;  the  instruction  of  youth,  and  what  is 
called,  though  in  some  respects  improperly  and 
unjustly,  the  lighter  kinds  of  literature.  Books 
for  the  nursery  and  the  school  will  occupy  a  con 
spicuous  station  on  one  side,  while  on  the  other 

21* 


246  MISCELLANIES. 

we  shall  see  novels,  tales,  essays,  and  poetry. 
And  if  we  were  asked  to  point  out  those  descrip 
tions  of  literature  which  are  the  most  directly  and 
extensively  active  on  the  manners,  principles,  and 
tastes,  mental  and  moral,  of  a  community,  we 
think  that  these  are  precisely  the  kinds  which  we 
should  name. 

The  power  which  well-adapted  books  may  ex 
ert  on  the  minds  of  children  can  hardly  be  stated 
in  extravagant  terms,  and  will  be  allowed  by  every 
one  to  be  great.  And  when  we  consider  further, 
that  early  impressions,  though  often  weakened, 
are  seldom  entirely  erased  ;  that  good  seed  on 
good  ground  affords  an  abundant  return  at  the 
harvest  time  ;  that  "  the  child  is  father  of  the 
man  ;  "  that  a  strong  direction  once  given  is  long, 
and,  in  a  majority  of  cases,  always  retained  ;  and, 
to  put  the  subject  in  one  other  point  of  view,  when 
we  consider  that  the  mother's  influence,  which, 
next  to  the  influence  of  Heaven  itself,  is  the  best 
and  dearest  and  most  heavenly,  and  has  been  the 
most  frequently  and  gratefully  acknowledged  by 
its  objects,  may  be  so  effectually  aided  in  its  opera 
tions  by  the  hints  which  the  parent  receives,  and 
the  stores  of  auxiliary  instruction  and  entertain 
ment  which  are  placed  at  her  disposal,  in  judicious 
books  for  children,  we  shall  regard  such  books  not 
with  pleasure  alone,  but  with  respect ;  we  shall 


FEMALE    LITERATURE.  247 

esteem  it  no  act  of  condescension  in  ourselves,  in 
any  one,  to  turn  over  their  pages  ;  we  shall  per 
ceive  more  solid  instruction,  more  beauty,  truth, 
power,  in  many  a  little  work  stitched  up  in  colored 
paper,  bearing  a  simple  wood  cut  on  each  side, 
and  thrown  about  the  nursery  with  as  much  free- 
doni  of  dissemination  as  the  most  ardent  republi 
can  could  desire,  than  in  many  a  proud  octavo, 
redolent  of  Russia,  and  tenacious  of  its  standing 
on  shelves  of  mahogany. 

Such  being  the  importance  of  juveniFe  books, 
who  are  the  best  qualified  to  make  them  ?  and 
who  do  make  them  ?  To  the  first  question  we 
answer,  Women.  They  are  the  best  qualified  to 
make  books  for  children,  who  are  most  in  the 
company  of  children  ;  who  have  almost  the  sole 
care  of  children  ;  whose  natural  sympathies  unite 
them  most  closely  with  children,  even  such  of  them 
as  have  never  been  mothers  themselves  ;  who  best 
know  the  minds,  the  wants,  the  hearts  of  children  ; 
and  whose  tenderness  and  gentleness  gracefully 
bend  to  the  ignorance  of  children,  and  assimilate 
most  easily  and  happily  with  their  soft  and  con 
fiding  natures.  The  child,  in  its  earlier  years  es 
pecially,  has  no  guardian  like  woman,  no  friend 
like  woman,  and  can  therefore  have  no  instructor 
like  woman. 

And,  when  we  come  to  answer  the  next  ques- 


248  MISCELLANIES. 

tion,  Who  have  really  devoted  their  best  talents 
and  most  anxious  care  to  the  education  of  child 
ren  ;  who  have  written  the  best  books  for  and 
about  children ;  we  are  thankful  that  we  again 
can  answer,  Women.  Thirty  years  ago  (if  we 
had  been  in  existence  then)  we  could  not  have 
answered  thus.  We  should  have  been  compelled 
to  say,  There  are  no  books  for  children ;  these 
important  members  of  the  human  family  are  desti 
tute  ;  this  immensely  valuable  and  infinitely  fer 
tile  field  lies  neglected  and  runs  to  waste  ;  no  seed 
has  been  sown  there  for  the  propitious  skies  to 
mature  ;  the  grain  is  yet  to  be  deposited ;  the 
weeds  are  yet  to  be  eradicated  ;  both  man  and 
woman  pass  it  by,  and  take  their  labor  to  other 
places,  and  think  not  of  redeeming  it,  nor  know 
that  by  care  and  culture  it  may  be  made  to  blos 
som  like  the  rose,  and  fill  the  earth  with  its  fruits. 
This  we  should  at  that  time  have  been  obliged  to 
say.  But  now  we  can  say,  that  those  whose  part 
and  province  it  was  to  do  this  work,  have  done  it, 
and  done  it  well.  We  can  point  to  the  names  of 
Barbauld  and  Edge  worth,  Taylor  and  Hoffland, 
and  confidently  ask,  where  there  are  worthier 
Men  talk  of  eras  in  literature.  The  era  of  the 
two  first  named  of  those  ladies,  the  era  of  the 
"  Hymns  for  Children,"  and  the  "Parent's  As 
sistant,"  was  a  golden  era,  pure  and  bright,  and 


FEMALE    LITERATURE.  249 

full  of  riches,  and  deserving  of  a  rank  among  the 
most  glorious  dates  of  improvement.  Since  that 
time  laborers  have  been  fast  coming  into  the  same 
field,  and  have  worked  well ;  though  we  must 
still  say,  that  those  who  came  first  worked  best. 
Our  own  countrywomen  have  been  neither  tardy 
in  advancing  to  this  delightful  task,  nor  inefficient 
in  their  services.  We  believe  that  the  best  child 
ren's  books  which  we  have  —  and  we  have  many 
which  are  excellent  —  are  the  composition  of  fe 
males  ;  and  if  we  felt  ourselves  at  liberty  to  do  so, 
we  could  repeat  an  honorable,  and  by  no  means  a 
scanty  list  of  the  names  of  those  who  have  earned 
something  better  than  mere  reputation,  by  con 
tributing  to  form  the  minds  and  hearts  of  our 
children.  Those  who  are  conscious  that  they  be 
long  to  the  catalogue,  have  little  to  ask  of  fame, 
and  certainly  nothing  to  receive  from  it  half  so 
valuable  as  that  which  they  already  possess  —  the 
gratulations  of  their  own  hearts. 

The  department  of  juvenile  literature,  then,  is 
almost  entirely  in  female  hands.  Long  may  it 
remain  there  !  Long,  for  the  interests  of  virtue, 
and  the  improvement  of  our  kind,  may  it  be  in  the 
heart  of  woman  to  nurture  the  growth,  and  watch 
over  and  direct  the  early  puttings  forth  of  youth 
ful  intellect  and  feeling.  While  she  retains  the 
office,  so  delightful  in  itself,  and  so  grave  and  mo- 


250  MISCELLANIES. 

mentous  in  its  ends,  and  even  adds  to  its  beautiful 
dignity  by  the  graceful  and  effectual  manner  in 
which  she  has  hitherto  performed  its  duties,  she 
inspires  us  with  an  admiration  of  a  deeper,  and 
more  lasting,  and,  we  must  also  believe,  more 
flattering  character,  than  was  the  most  glowing 
and  romantic  love  of  the  days  of  chivalry.  Talk 
not  to  us  of  chivalry,  unless  it  be  in  poetry,  and 
with  the  usual  latitude  and  license  of  poetry.  In 
truth,  and  in  prose,  the  most  refined  devotion  of 
knighthood  and  chivalry  is  no  more  to  be  com 
pared,  in  purity  and  elevation,  to  the  sentiments 
which  female  excellence  now  commands,  than  are 
those  fair  ones  who  then  presided  at  the  great 
duels  which  we  read  of  under  the  poetical  name 
of  tournaments,  and  who  by  their  presence  and 
plaudits  animated  the  legalized  and  courtly  slaugh 
ter  which  was  raging  and  struggling  beneath  them, 
to  be  compared  to  the  females  of  our  own  time, 
who,  as  beautiful,  no  doubt,  and  accomplished  as 
they,  find  it  their  more  appropriate  privilege  and 
pleasure  to  stimulate  the  fresh  powers  of  child 
hood  to  the  competitions  of  knowledge  and  virtue, 
and  to  hold  out  the  meed  of  approbation  to  the 
exertions  of  innocent  and  ingenuous  minds. 

To  pass  from  this  department  of  woman's  lite 
rary  labors  to  the  other,  we  come  to  a  field,  which, 
though  she  does  not  occupy  it  so  exclusively,  she 


FEMALE    LITERATURE.  251 

occupies  with  honor,  and  in  which  she  has  done 
much  good,  and  still  may  do  more.  It  is  a  field, 
too,  which,  in  common  with  the  former,  has  been 
undervalued.  We  shall  not  stop  to  argue  with 
those  who  contend  that  novels,  and  romances, 
poems  and  plays,  should  not  be  read.  It  is  enough 
that  people  will  read  them  as  fast  as  they  are  writ 
ten  ;  that  beyond  other  kinds  of  literature,  they 
are  widely  diffused,  and  caught  up  with  an  un 
satisfied  avidity.  In  one  sense,  if  in  no  other, 
they  are  truly  light ;  for,  like  those  seeds  to  which 
nature  has  given  wings,  they  fly  abroad  with  the 
four  winds,  rejoicing  in  their  buoyancy,  and  dis 
seminating  themselves  through  every  land.  This 
lightness  is  of  itself  a  vast  advantage,  and  the  true 
inquiry  is,  not  whether  the  advantage  shall  be 
used  —  for  that  we  cannot  help  —  but  how  it  may 
be  best  used.  As  thistle  down,  and  nettle  seed  are 
in  full  possession  of  it,  we  ought  to  turn  our  atten 
tion  to  those  worthier  plants,  whose  seeds  are  also 
winged,  and  favor  their  culture,  and  encourage 
their  maturity.  The  interest,  the  natural,  irre 
pressible  interest,  which  the  passions  of  men  will 
always  take  in  lively  descriptions  of  passion  ;  the 
absorbing  heed  which  their  affections  will  render, 
while  the  world  stands,  to  writings  which  address 
and  excite  them,  should  be  turned  to  virtuous  ends 
by  all  those  who  love  virtue,  to  useful  ends  by  all 


252  MISCELLANIES. 

those  who  honor  truth  ;  and  every  patriot  and 
every  philanthropist,  every  well-wisher  to  his  coun 
try  or  his  kind,  should  rejoice  whenever  he  sees 
those,  who,  with  the  magic  wands  of  poesy  and 
fiction  and  the  potent  spells  of  genius,  might  lead 
the  spirits  of  men  almost  whither  they  would,  and 
who  yet  would  rather  snap  their  wands  asunder, 
and  abjure  their  spells  forever,  than  wield  them 
for  a  moment  in  league  with  the  powers  of  dark 
ness  ;  who  would  rather  die,  than  lure  men,  by 
any  charms  of  theirs,  from  the  paths  of  upright 
ness  and  life. 

The  purity  and  the  goodness  of  woman  have 
here  done  their  proper  work.  They  are  seen  and 
felt  in  the  elegant  literature  of  the  times.  They 
have  greatly  contributed  to  chasten  the  morals  of 
literature,  and  establish  a  code  of  laws,  by  which 
offences  against  decency  are  condemned  as  of 
fences  against  taste.  We  would  hazard  the  opin 
ion,  that  to  their  absence  the  prevailing  licentious 
ness  of  old  English  literature  is  in  some  degree 
to  be  ascribed.  There  were  no  female  authors  in 
those  days  when  ribaldry  wras  deemed  essential  to 
the  drama,  if  to  no  other  species  of  writing ;  and 
when  a  novel  was  thought  none  the  worse,  per 
haps  all  the  better,  for  describing  scenes,  which 
we  trust  would  now  be  the  proscription  of  any 
book  whatever.  They  have  now  come  in,  follow- 


FEMALE   LITERATURE.  253 

ing  the  conduct  of  their  own  taste  and  peculiar 
powers,  to  try  their  skill  in  providing  the  intellect 
ual  entertainment  of  society  ;  and  a  chaster  tone 
of  public  sentiment  has  been,  in  part,  the  conse 
quence  of  the  trial.  We  would  not  give  an  un 
reasonable  share  in  the  reformation  to  the  influence 
of  female  literature  ;  but  we  have  no  doubt  what 
ever,  that  the  cooperation  of  that  with  other  meli 
orating  influences  has  been  of  the  utmost  import 
ance  to  the  final  effect.  How  should  it  be  other 
wise  ?  Why  should  not  the  modesty  and  delicate 
feeling  of  woman  refine  and  soften  the  character 
of  society  as  much  in  her  writings,  as  in  her  man 
ners  and  conversation  and  life  ? 

That  some  females  seem  to  have  forgotten  their 
sex,  and  to  have  prided  themselves  on  throwing 
off  their  peculiar  qualities,  and  adopting  the  coarser 
habits  of  men,  in  their  literary  performances,  is 
true.  But  such  cases  are  happily,  and  as  we 
think,  necessarily  rare.  The  masquerade  is  out 
of  nature,  and  gives  no  pleasure  to  those  whose 
approbation  is  valuable.  It  is  like  the  occasional 
adoption  of  masculine  attire  by  heroines  of  the 
stage.  All  may  not  be  disgusted  with  the  meta 
morphosed  individual,  but  certainly  none  can  re 
spect,  and  few  can  approve. 

If  there  is  a  poison  more  subtle,  more  deadly, 
and,  alas,  more  palatable,  than  all  others,  it  is  the 
22 


254  MISCELLANIES. 

poison  of  passion,  which  is  communicated  far  and 
wide  through  the  medium  of  books  of  amusement. 
If  there  is  a  medicine  more  healthful,  pleasant,  and 
precious  than  others,  it  is  the  antidote  of  virtuous 
principle  conveyed  through  the  same  medium, 
acceptable  to  all  tastes,  and  spreading  wherever 
the  poison  had  spread.  The  hand  of  woman  has 
been  doing  its  proper  office  in  largely  administer 
ing  the  healing  potion.  The  gentle  and  faithful 
nurse  of  our  bodily  sicknesses  has  extended  her 
care  to  our  mental  and  moral  constitution,  assidu 
ously  and  with  success.  Both  services  belong  to 
her,  and  in  both  capacities  she  is  at  home.  She 
cannot  be  false  to  her  nature.  The  cause  of  vir 
tue  must  always  find  in  her  an  advocate.  While 
she  uses  the  pen,  she  must  always  use  it  to  incul 
cate  the  graces  which  she  loves,  and  in  which  she 
herself  excels.  If  our  literature  needs  a  preserva 
tive  against  the  deleterious  infusions  of  licentious 
ness  and  folly,  we  look  confidently  to  her,  for  we 
shall  find  it  in  the  enthusiasm  of  her  heart,  and 
the  strength  of  her  good  principles.  But  if  our 
confidence  should  prove  to  be  misplaced  ;  if  our 
anticipations  should  be  disappointed  ;  if  woman 
should  ever  turn  recreant  to  her  own  interest,  her 
own  happiness,  her  own  nature  ;  if  she  too  should 
begin  to  blot  the  fair  page  of  letters  with  unseem 
liness,  and  make  the  mind  and  soul  instruments  of 


FEMALE    LITERATURE.  255 

their  own  degradation  ;  then,  though  we  are  not 
apt  to  despair  of  anything  that  is  good,  then  we 
should  either  give  up  the  cause,  or  look  for  direct 
interposition  from  above,  for  vain  would  be  the 
help  of  man. 


MORAL  EDUCATION. 


WE  have  abundant  reason  for  gratitude  to 
Heaven,  and  to  those  instruments  in  the  hands  of 
Heaven,  our  worthy  ancestors,  for  the  numerous 
and  excellent  institutions  of  learning,  and  means 
of  education  which  we  in  this  country  enjoy.  For 
the  most  part,  we  evince  our  gratitude  for  them 
by  the  value  which  we  set  upon  them ;  though  we 
are  not  yet  grateful  enough,  for  we  do  not  yet 
value  them  highly  enough.  We  do  not  value 
them  highly  enough,  because  we  do  not  correctly 
appreciate,  nor  universally  understand,  the  great 
purpose  and  end  of  instruction.  Many  among 
us  are  not  in  the  habit  of  regarding  this  purpose 
as  a  moral  purpose,  and  this  end  as  a  moral  end. 
We  are  afraid  that,  from  the  poorest  to  the  richest 
of  us,  the  mind  is  considered  as  the  principal  ob 
ject  of  education,  and  the  information  of  the 
mind  as  education's  peculiar  and  ultimate  design. 
Though  there  exists  very  remarkably  in  our  coun 
try,  or  at  least  in  this  part  of  our  country,  a  great 


MORAL    EDUCATION.  257 

desire  in  parents  to  secure  an  education  to  their 
children,  and  a  general  willingness  to  spend  their 
money  for  this  gift,  yet  we  believe  that  it  is  com 
mon  for  the  poor  to  bestow  what  means  of  edu 
cation  they  can  on  their  children,  under  the  sole 
idea  of  preserving  them  from  the  disgrace  and 
the  inconvenience  of  ignorance,  and  for  the  rich 
to  furnish  their  children  with  every  accomplish 
ment  which  wealth  can  command,  with  the  pre 
dominant  impression  and  hope  that  they  are  qual 
ifying  them  to  push  their  way  in  the  world,  and 
make  a  figure  in  the  eyes  of  society.  They  do 
not  seem  to  extend  their  views,  or  if  at  all,  not 
with  a  due  anxiety,  to  that  far  nobler  and  more 
important  office  of  education,  which  is  simply 
and  beautifully  described  in  the  words  of  the. 
prophet  Ezekiel.  They  seem  not  to  apprehend 
that  it  confers  its  best  and  most  finished  endow 
ment  on  their  offspring,  only  when  it  has  taught 
them  "  the  difference  between  the  holy  and  pro 
fane,  and  caused  them  to  discern  between  the  un 
clean  and  the  clean." 

This  is  education's  perfect  work.  When  it  has 
done  this,  it  has  done  everything ;  and  till  it  has 
done  this,  it  has  done  nothing  effectually.  Who 
has  a  finished  education,  as  far  as  any  education 
may  be  called  finished  ?  Not  he  who  is  often 
complimented  by  the  world  on  its  possession, 

22* 


258  MISCELLANIES. 

Not  he  who  has  been  through  all  the  most  expen 
sive  schools,  and  yet  without  learning  his  duty  to 
God  and  his  neighbor.  No ;  if  he  is  master  of 
all  accomplishments ;  if  his  brain  is  filled  to  its 
remotest  cell  with  all  manner  of  knowledge,  and 
still  he  does  not  discern,  or  does  not  act  as  if  he 
discerned,  between  the  unclean  and  the  clean,  his 
education  is  not  finished  in  the  most  important 
respect ;  it  is  imperfect ;  it  has  stopped  short  of 
its  destination ;  for  it  has  stopped  short  of  true 
wisdom,  and  the  pupil  is  as  yet  immature,  super 
ficial,  unfurnished.  Who  has  a  finished  educa 
tion  ?  He  has  it,  who,  though  he  may  have  only 
learned  to  read  and  write,  has  learned,  beside,  the 
difference,  the  immense  difference,  between  the 
holy  and  profane  ;  has  cultivated  his  moral  capaci 
ties  ;  has  acquired  sound  opinions,  and  firm  prin 
ciples,  and  good  habits ;  has  preferred  and  chosen 
the  paths  and  the  rewards  of  virtue.  His  educa 
tion  is  really  finished,  for  its  true  end  is  attained ; 
it  has  given  him  the  wisdom  to  perceive,  the  abili 
ty  to  discharge,  his  personal,  his  social,  his  reli 
gious  obligations ;  it  has  placed  him  as  a  column 
in  the  great  fabric  of  human  relations ;  and 
though  he  may  not  adorn  that  fabric,  to  the  eye, 
as  much  as  some  other  columns  which  art  has 
more  carefully  enriched,  he  supports  it  quite  as 
well  in  the  simple  beauty  of  strength  and  dura 
bility. 


MORAL    EDUCATION.  259 

We  mean  not  to  say  that  everything  which 
informs,  and  enlarges  and  embellishes  the  mind, 
has  not  a  natural  tendency  to  educate  the  heart, 
and  establish  the  character  on  enduring  founda 
tions.  We  cannot  be  such  recreants  to  the  noble 
cause  and  holy  faith  of  letters.  We  believe  that 
education,  in  all  its  fulness,  and  all  its  variety, 
has  a  powerful  and  beneficial  influence  on  morals. 
It  is  precisely  because  we  believe  this,  that  we  say 
it  is  never  finished  till  it  has  exerted  that  influ 
ence  ;  morals  being  its  end.  Mind  is  its  first  ob 
ject,  but  it  is  not  its  only,  nor  its  final  object. 
Through  the  mind  it  must  reach  the  moral  senti 
ments  and  convictions,  or  it  reaches  not  its  mark. 
That  is  but  a  partial  education,  which  does  not 
lead  its  pupil  to  the  knowledge  and  the  practice 
of  duty.  That  is  a  complete  education,  the  edu 
cation  of  a  man,  which  makes  a  man  feel  himself 
one  ;  an  accountable  creature  of  God  ;  a  free  and 
a  noble  spirit,  discerning  the  difference  between 
the  holy  and  profane,  the  unclean  and  the  clean, 
and  renouncing  the  evil  and  embracing  the  good, 
for  his  own  sake,  for  society's  sake,  and  for  God's 
sake. 

That  by  such  an  education,  and  in  no  other 
way,  or  in  no  other  way  so  well,  some  of  the 
greatest  blessings  of  life  are  to  be  widely  and 
permanently  secured,  we  have  no  doubt.  If 


260  MISCELLANIES. 

such  an  education  is  impracticable  to  any  greater 
extent  and  degree  than  has  already  been  at 
tained,  then,  with  all  our  faith  in  human  improve 
ment,  we  should  be  obliged  to  acknowledge  that 
no  further  improvement  was  to  be  hoped  for,  in 
this  world.  A  few  remarks  on  some  of  the  ad 
vantages  which  can  only  result  from  a  general 
and  thorough  system  of  moral  education,  will 
best  explain  our  reasons  for  attributing  to  it  so 
great  an  importance. 

We  must  be  permitted  to  say,  then,  that  we 
know  not  in  what  other  way  the  best  political 
blessings  are  to  be  secured  to  our  country.  We 
are  as  prosperous,  as  powerful,  and  as  free  as  we 
are,  chiefly  because  we  have  been  thus  far,  and 
comparatively  speaking,  an  intelligent  and  a 
moral  people;  because  knowledge  has  been  re 
markably  diffused  among  us,  and  our  habits  have 
been  simple,  and  for  the  most  part  virtuous  and 
religious.  But  luxury  has  increased  with  our 
wealth,  corruption  with  our  numbers,  and  ambi 
tion  with  our  strength.  The  virtue  which  carried 
us  through  the  time  of  our  tribulation,  may  relax 
and  be  dissolved  in  the  time  of  our  prosperity. 
Those  principles  of  honesty,  and  justice,  and  free 
dom,  which  we  only  wrapped  the  more  closely 
about  us  while  the  storms  of  persecution  and  pov 
erty  were  blowing,  may  be  loosened,  and  perhaps 


MORAL    EDUCATION.  261 

thrown  off,  under  the  warm  suns  of  plenty  and 
ease.  It  was  a  day  of  peril  and  of  trial,  when, 
to  guard  their  rights  and  liberties  against  an  arro 
gant  and  superior  force,  our  fathers  stood  on  the 
brink  "  few  and  faint,  yet  fearless  still,"  and  dared 
and  suffered  the  worst ;  but,  if  we  are  not  greatly 
mistaken,  our  country  may  see  a  day  more  peril 
ous  and  trying  than  that ;  the  day  when  it  will 
have  to  contend  with  the  passion,  and  the  pride, 
and  the  lust  of  its  own  children.  If  ;t  escapes 
from  such  a  trial  safely  and  with  honor,  it  will  be 
only  owing  to  the  prevailing  moral  sentiment  of 
the  people,  diffused  through  their  mass  by  all  the 
efforts  and  means  of  a  moral  education. 

We  form  a  republic.  We  are  all  politically 
equal.  The  right  of  government  is  shared  by 
every  individual  in  the  nation  ;  and  Heaven  forbid 
that  it  should  be  otherwise.  But  this  right  of 
government  must  be  delegated  somewhere.  We 
must  have  rulers  like  other  nations.  We  appoint 
these  rulers  ourselves,  and  in  their  hands  we  place 
in  trust  much  of  our  happiness.  What  is  to  se 
cure  to  us  good  rulers,  rulers  who  will  respect  and 
watch  that  sacred  deposit,  but  the  widest  diffusion 
of  correct  opinions  and  feelings  through  the  influ 
ences  of  a  moral  education  ?  What  is  to  secure 
us  against  unprincipled  rulers,  but  a  deep  respect 
for  principle,  and  a  stern,  uncompromising  de- 


262  MISCELLANIES. 

mand  for  men  of  principle,  and  a  universal  deter 
mination  to  bestow  no  confidence  on  talent  alone 
without  principle  ?  What  is  to  secure  us  against 
the  winding,  specious,  flattering  arts  of  political 
quacks  and  demagogues,  but  an  understanding 
sufficiently  informed  to  detect  those  arts,  and  a 
virtue  sufficiently  elevated  to  despise  them  ? 
What,  in  fine,  is  to  carry  the  best  men  to  the 
highest  and  most  responsible  places,  but  the  exist 
ence  and  the  predominance  in  the  community  of 
worth,  of  moral  worth,  which  will  appreciate  and 
sympathize  with,  and  seek  out  worth  like  its  own, 
for  honor,  office  and  trust  ?  And  how  shall  we 
secure  this  moral  worth  in  the  community,  unless 
it  is  instilled,  guarded  and  confirmed  by  all  the 
influences  and  appliances  of  a  moral  education 
universally  diffused. 

And  what,  again,  we  ask,  is  to  preserve  us  from 
a  national  passion  for  war  and  the  deeds  of  war, 
an  admiration  of  military  fame,  a  love  of  domin 
ion,  a  thirst  of  conquest  ?  What  is  to  preserve 
us  from  these  things,  which  have  been  among  the 
deepest  stains  and  curses  of  the  world  from  the 
world's  childhood,  but  a  general  sentiment,  which, 
with  purged  and  undazzled  eyes,  shall  view  war 
rather  as  a  scourge,  a  judgment,  than  as  a  thea 
tre  of  glory  ?  Why  should  we  not  go  on,  as 
other  nations  have  gone  on,  extending  our  posses.* 


MORAL    EDUCATION.  263 

sions  by  the  sword,  and  losing  them  by  the  sword, 
attacking  and  attacked,  spoiling  and  spoiled,  and 
devoting  treasure,  talent  and  life,  to  the  insane 
purpose  of  fighting  with  the  rest  of  the  world, 
and  entailing  on  ourselves  that  misery,  be  it 
splendid  or  otherwise,  which  is  always  entailed 
by  ambitious  war,  unless  we  are  taught  by  expe 
rience  and  religion  to  regard  war  as  that  last,  ter 
rible  resort,  which  good  men  in  all  ages,  though 
not,  alas  !  the  multitude,  have  considered  it  to  be  ? 
If  we  feel  and  think  on  this  and  kindred  subjects 
as  other  nations  have  thought  and  felt,  why  should 
we  not  take  the  path  of  other  nations,  and  stride 
on  through  luxury,  and  what  is  called  glory,  to 
ruin  and  oblivion  ? 

Everything  depends,  under  Providence,  on  the 
education,  and  intellectual  and  moral  habits  of 
our  people.  Where  each  man  has,  as  here,  a 
voice  and  a  vote,  the  fate  of  the  whole  hangs  on 
the  disposition  and  character  of  the  majority.  If 
the  majority,  the  great  mass  of  the  nation,  are 
brought  up  to  entertain  sober  views,  to  regard 
consequences,  to  suspect  their  passions  and  re 
spect  their  reason,  to  divest  themselves  of  sec 
tional  prejudices,  to  study  the  things  that  make 
for  peace,  to  know  and  to  feel  the  difference  be 
tween  the  holy  and  profane,  and  to  value  virtue 
more  than  fame  or  eloquence,  or  anything  else 


264  MISCELLANIES* 

that  can  be  named,  then  there  can  be  no  fear  for 
our  liberty,  our  prosperity,  our  union,  or  stability ; 
no  fear  of  enemies  without  or  factions  within,  no 
fear  of  bad  rulers,  or  misguided  mobs,  or  any 
permanently  evil  influence,  for  power  will  be 
righteous,  and  righteousness  will  be  all  powerful ; 
there  will  be  a  natural  junction  of  right  and 
might  which  nothing  human  can  overcome  and 
disturb.  But  if  the  majority  are  to  grow  up  un 
informed,  undisciplined,  discerning  nothing  but 
the  present,  and  that  but  partially  and  passionate 
ly,  overflowing  with  local  and  petty  antipathies, 
south  against  north,  and  east  against  west,  easily 
inflamed,  easily  led,  and  always  most  easily  by 
the  most  interested  guides,  then  fear  may  augur 
the  worst. 

These  remarks  are  made  without  any  reference 
to  the  present  promises  or  prospects  of  the  coun 
try,  which  we  are  willing  to  believe  are  of  a 
favorable  description.  We  have  merely  been 
drawing  inferences  from  the  nature  of  our  gov 
ernment.  We,  the  people,  govern  ourselves. 
The  main  object  of  our  solicitude,  therefore,  an 
object  of  far  more  importance  than  any  tempo 
rary  question  of  party  politics,  should  be,  to  know 
how  to  govern  ourselves,  or,  which  with  us 
amounts  to  the  same  thing,  how  we  ought  to  be 
governed.  In  other  words,  our  first  political  duty 


MORAL    EDUCATION.  265 

is  a  moral  self-education,  as  thorough  as  possible, 
and  as  widely  diffused.  If  we  faithfully  attend  to 
this  duty,  it  requires  little  sagacity  to  predict  that 
our  destiny  is  a  truly  glorious  one,  the  most  glo 
rious  that  has  yet  been  achieved  on  earth.  If  we 
neglect  it,  it  requires  as  little  to  foresee,  that  if 
our  fortune  is  not  to  be  more  melancholy  than 
that  of  other  nations  has  been,  it  will  differ  but 
little  from  the  common  course  ;  we  shall  follow 
in  the  beaten  track,  and  pursue  the  accustomed 
trade, 

"  A  wild  and  dreamlike  trade  of  blood  and  guile, 
Too  foolish  for  a  tear,  too  wicked  for  a  smile !  " 

But  we  will  pass  from  this  topic,  which  may  be 
thought  to  be  of  too  general  a  nature,  and  touch 
upon  one  or  two  others  which  are  more  special 
and  definite. 

Let  us  speak  of  the  influence  of  a  moral  educa 
tion  in  suppressing  or  checking  a  vice  which  has 
been  said,  but  we  hope  not  truly,  to  be  more  com 
mon  in  this  country  than  in  any  other.  Whether 
more  common  or  not,  it  is  fearfully  prevalent,  and 
comparison  is  altogether  unnecessary  to  impress 
us  with  a  vivid  sense  of  its  magnitude.  We  mean 
the  vice  of  intemperance.  We  need  not  describe 
it,  its  nature,  character,  or  consequences.  We 
need  not  tell  how  odious  and  degrading  it  is  in 
23 


266  MISCELLANIES. 

itself,  and  how  often  it  becomes  the  parent  of  other 
vices,  as  bad,  or  worse.  Its  ravages  have  been 
so  extensive  and  terrible,  that  within  a  few  years 
the  public  attention  has  been  most  seriously  di 
rected  to  it,  and  various  measures  have  been  pro 
posed  and  tried  with  the  design  of  arresting  its 
progress.  For  this  purpose,  societies  have  been 
formed,  sermons  have  been  preached,  tracts  have 
been  distributed,  newspapers  have  been  estab 
lished.  These  means  have  in  some  degree,  per 
haps  we  should  say,  in  a  great  degree,  effected 
their  end.  Let  them  not  be  sneered  at  because 
they  have  not  effected  everything.  There  was 
never  a  society  formed  yet,  by  sensible  men,  with 
a  moral  object  in  view,  which  did  not  accomplish 
something  toward  that  object.  United  thoughts 
suggest  expedients,  and  united  efforts  arrest  pub 
lic  attention.  Thus  much  has  been  done,  if  no 
more,  by  the  societies  which  have  been  formed  for 
the  suppression  of  intemperance.  From  the  nature 
of  the  case,  this  is  about  all  which  they  can  do, 
or  ought  to  be  expected  to  do.  Much  remains  to 
be  done  by  education,  by  moral  education,  which 
nothing  but  a  moral  education  can  do.  The  les 
sons  of  moderation  must  be  particularly  enforced 
on  the  young.  They  must  be  made  to  see  the 
sure  connection  between  intemperance  and  shame 
and  misery.  They  must  be  made  to  consider  a 


MORAL    EDUCATION.  267 

spectacle  of  intoxication  in  the  street,  as  a  subject, 
not  of  mirth,  but  of  pity  and  dread.  They  must 
be  taught  that  there  are  other  and  better  social 
pleasures  than  that  of  drinking ;  that  there  are 
other  and  more  effectual  consolations  in  sorrow 
than  that  of  drinking  ;  and  those  pleasures  and 
those  consolations  must  be  placed  before  them, 
and  within  their  reach.  They  must  be  taught  to 
feel  that  they  have  a  nature  too  high  and  heavenly 
in  its  origin  and  capacities,  to  be  enslaved  to  an 
indulgence  lower  than  brutal.  They  must  respect 
it,  and  fear  to  wrong  and  insult  and  debase  it. 
They  must  be  led  to  exercise  self-government ;  to 
know  their  own  strength,  and  to  rejoice  in  it ;  to 
feel  themselves  superior  to  a  poor  temptation  of 
appetite  ;  to  feel  it  to  be  impossible  that  they  could 
ever  sacrifice  their  -respectability,  their  substance, 
their  health,  their  talents,  the  feelings  of  their 
friends,  and  the  favor  of  their  God,  to  the  vile 
solicitations  of  intemperance. 

These  are  lessons  which  can  and  must  be  taught 
more  assiduously  than  they  ever  yet  have  been.  " 
These  lessons  of  wisdom,  prudence,  and  duty,  be 
gin  at  the  beginning,  and  by  preventing  the  vice, 
do  better  than  cure  it.  They  may  be  inculcated 
by  various  instructers,  and  in  ten  thousand  differ 
ent  ways.  They  may  be  taught  to  the  poor,  as 
well  as  to  the  rich.  There  is  nothing  chimerical 


268  MISCELLANIES. 

in  the  idea  of  such  instruction.  If  there  is,  the 
idea  of  any  improvement  in  this  respect  is  chimer 
ical.  One  thing  appears  to  us  very  evident,  which 
is,  that  nothing  but  lessons  of  morality  and  sober 
ness,  well  taught  and  well  learned,  will  make  us 
a  sober  people  ;  for  nothing  but  a  moral  elevation 
will  raise  us  above  a  moral  reproach  ;  and  those 
who  are  low  in  their  thoughts,  sentiments,  and 
principles,  will  be  also  low,  and  you  cannot  help 
it,  in  their  pleasures  and  tastes. 

There  is  another  subject  on  which  we  would 
say  a  few  words  in  this  connection,  because  it  is 
also  one  which  has  occupied  considerable  atten 
tion  in  this  portion  of  the  country.  We  refer  to 
the  observance  of  the  Lord's  Day  as  a  day  of  rest. 
The  reason  for  the  attention  which  has  been  lately 
paid  to  this  subject,  is  not  that  the  Lord's  Day  has 
not  been  observed  here,  but  that  it  has  hitherto 
been  observed  with  such  extreme  strictness,  that 
any  deviations  from  the  former  course  have  been 
regarded  by  many  as  alarming  proofs  of  degen 
eracy.  The  truth  is,  that  the  Christian  Sabbath  is 
remarkably  well  kept  in  this  section  of  the  coun 
try  ;  but  as  population  increases,  variety  of  pur 
suits  will  keep  pace  with  it,  some  of  which  will  be 
incompatible  with  the  strict  observance  of  the  day 
of  rest.  Travelling,  for  instance,  of  all  kinds,  will 
increase,  and  of  course  necessary  travelling,  and 


MORAL    EDUCATION.  269 

all  the  means,  facilities,  and  appendages  of  travel 
ling.  To  make  a  law  which  should  distinguish 
between  necessary  and  unnecessary  travelling  and 
their  accompaniments,  would  be  impossible.  Nor 
would  the  people  long  submit  to  any  law  on  the 
subject ;  nor  ought  they  ;  it  would  be  reversed, 
or  it  would  fall  into  disuse.  The  only  provisions 
which  can  be  made  with  regard  to  it,  are  the  pro 
visions  of  moral  education.  We  have  begun  well. 
We  are  in  a  good  path.  We  have  inherited  from 
our  forefathers  a  respect  for  the  Lord's  Day,  its 
duties  and  its  rest.  We  devoutly  hope  that  the 
inheritance  may  never  be  undervalued  or  dissi 
pated  ;  that  the  feeling  may  never  be  diminished. 
But  we  are  sincerely  of  opinion,  that  the  only  me 
thod  of  insuring  so  desirable  an  object,  is  to  keep 
up,  and  indeed  greatly  to  confirm  and  spread 
abroad,  the  moral  habits  of  the  people,  by  making 
a  moral  education  our  chief  concern.  If  we  cher 
ish  among  us  a  regard  for  religious  privileges,  for 
order,  for  peacefulness,  for  duty,  we  need  not 
tremble  for  the  Christian  Sabbath.  A  day,  which 
in  its  quiet  observance  harmonizes  so  beautifully 
with  these  blessings,  and  contributes  so  much  to 
their  security,  will  always  be  well  observed.  Man 
will  see  that  it  is  made  for  him,  for  his  use  and  for 
his  good,  and  he  will  keep  it  holy.  But  if  the 
public  moral  sentiment,  and  perception  of  obliga- 
23* 


270  MISCELLANIES. 

tion,  and  love  of  quiet  happiness  and  intellectual 
occupation,  are  not  fostered  ;  if  boisterous  pleas 
ures  come  to  be  preferred  to  peaceful  ones,  and 
dissipation  to  improvement,  the  Lord's  Day,  so 
long  hallowed  by  us,  and  endeared  to  us,  will  be 
desecrated,  as  a  matter  of  course,  and  a  volume 
of  laws  could  not  prevent  the  desecration.  We 
do  not  permit  ourselves  to  harbor  the  fear  that 
such  an  event  will  take  place  ;  but  if  it  should, 
our  Sabbath  bells,  which  have  heretofore  rung  out, 
on  every  first  day  of  the  week,  their  cheerful  call 
to  rest  and  praise  and  prayer,  might  well  be  taught 
to  toll  a  knell  throughout  the  land  for  the  death  of 
ancient  virtue. 

Why  should  we  say  more  ?  The  simple  fact 
that  the  course  and  the  fate  of  this  country  de 
pend,  under  Providence,  on  the  character  of  the 
mass  of  its  inhabitants,  is  proof  sufficient  to  my 
mind,  that  the  moral  education  of  all  classes,  and 
all  ages,  but  more  particularly  of  the  poor  and  the 
young,  is  the  one  thing  needful.  If  the  people 
are  lifted  up  into  knowledge,  virtue,  and  respecta 
bility,  their  course  will  be  an  elevated  one  ;  if  not, 
it  will  be  a  vulgar,  and  finally  a  miserable  one  ; 
for  they  will  take  their  own  way. 

If  we  are  asked,  what  are  the  means  of  moral 
education,  and  how  they  are  to  be  applied,  and 
who  shall  apply  them,  we  answer,  the  means  are 


MORAL    EDUCATION.  271 

numberless,  and  they  are  to  be  applied  in  many 
various  ways,  and  by  many  descriptions  of  per 
sons,  a  few  only  of  which  we  have  time  to  specify. 

Schools  are  to  be  supported  with  liberality,  and 
multiplied  to  the  extent  of  the  demand.  Too 
many  children  should  not  be  crowded  together  in 
one  school,  nor  more  pupils  be  placed  under  one 
master  than  he  can  well  attend  to.  Our  good 
opinion  of  a  town  always  rises,  according  to  the 
number  of  schools  which  it  contains  in  proportion 
to  the  number  of  its  inhabitants. 

The  office  of  instructer  of  youth  should  always 
be  regarded  as  an  important  and  dignified  office, 
and  treated  accordingly.  Instructers  of  the  best 
acquirements  should  always  be  sought  for  ;  and 
when  found,  should  be  honored  and  well  support 
ed.  You  certainly  do  not  wish  to  look  down  on 
him  as  an  inferior,  who  has  the  care  of  the  minds 
of  your  children.  But  you  cannot  avoid  doing  so, 
unless  his  talents  and  attainments  really  entitle  him 
to  your  respect ;  and  you  cannot  think  of  obtain 
ing  one  thus  respectable,  unless  you  afford  to  his 
labors  that  remuneration  which  they  would  secure 
in  other  professions.  It  is  poor  policy  and  poor 
economy,  to  look  out  for  the  cheapest  schoolmas 
ter  who  is  to  be  had  ;  for  the  cheapest  is  generally 
the  dearest,  because  he  is  generally  the  least  worth 
what  is  given  for  him.  A  good  education,  a  really 


272  MISCELLANIES. 

good  education,  is  the  best  legacy  which  you  can 
leave  to  your  children  ;  and  it  becomes  you  to  be 
sparing  in  anything  rather  than  in  that.  We  do 
not  mean  that  you  should  be  extravagant,  even  in 
education  ;  but,  we  adjure  you,  parents,  by  all  that 
is  worthy  and  respectable,  by  the  honor  arid  happi 
ness  of  your  children,  and  by  your  own  hopes  for 
them,  do  not  consider  education  the  least  of  neces 
saries,  or  the  least  of  comforts  ;  do  not  put  it 
down  among  the  lowest  of  your  expenses  ;  do  not 
make  it  the  last  of  your  indulgences,  but  rather 
the  first.  It  is,  as  we  have  said,  the  best  legacy. 
It  has  no  wings,  like  riches.  It  does  not  pass 
away  with  youth.  It  cannot  be  alienated,  and  it 
only  increases  in  value  with  years.  Let  the  in- 
structers  of  your  children,  therefore,  be  well  qual 
ified  to  instruct  them.  Above  all,  see  that  they 
are  unimpeachable  in  their  moral  character  ;  for 
no  other  qualification  will  supply  the  absence  of 
this.  The  air  of  a  school-room  is  tainted  and  poi 
soned  by  the  presence  of  an  immoral  teacher  ;  let 
not  your  children  breathe  it. 

Books  of  instruction  are  to  be  carefully  exam 
ined  and  selected,  that  they  may  always  inculcate 
the  soundest  and  purest  views  of  life,  conduct,  and 
happiness,  and  inculcate  them  in  the  most  engag 
ing  and  convincing  manner.  Children  receive 
many  of  their  first  and  deepest  impressions  from 


MORAL    EDUCATION.  273 

school-books.  It  is  highly  important  that  these 
impressions  should  be  of  a  virtuous  stamp,  and 
that  they  should  also  be  associations  of  pleasant 
ness. 

No  change  in  the  modes  of  education,  which 
promises  to  be  a  real  improvement,  should  be 
slighted.  We  must  not  permit  our  attachment  to 
old  methods  to  prevent  our  adopting  new  ones 
which  are  better.  Experiment  is  the  natural  pio 
neer  of  improvement,  and  should  not  be  discour 
aged  in  its  vocation  and  duty.  Education  has 
already  been  made  to  bear  closely  and  powerfully 
on  the  mass.  We  should  leave  no  means  untried 
to  make  it  bear  still  more  closely  and  powerfully. 
Lyceums  have  done  and  are  doing  much  in  our 
villages:  Public  lectures  have  done  and  are  doing 
much  in  our  cities  and  towns.  We  have  it  from 
unquestionable  authority,  that  crowds  of  young 
men  attend  constantly  and  with  interest  on  these 
means  of  information,  who,  a  little  while  ago, 
spent  their  evenings  at  places  of  resort,  which  are 
always  very  questionable,  often  fatal.  This  change 
cannot  operate  otherwise  than  to  produce  great 
and  general  benefit. 

Parents  —  what  a  weight  of  responsibility  there 
is  upon  them  !  How  much  the  moral  education 
of  their  children  depends  on  their  efforts,  advice, 
and  example  !  What  a  power  they  have  over  the 


274  MISCELLANIES. 

character  of  the  coming  generation  !  How  deeply 
does  it  concern  them  to  inculcate  on  those  en 
trusted  to  their  care,  the  necessity  of  virtue  and 
religion,  and  to  show  forth  their  beauty  and  glory 
by  the  whole  course  of  their  example  !  Vain 
will  be  the  teaching  of  schools,  if  they  are  not 
confirmed  at  home.  Vain  will  be  the  lessons 
of  the  tutor,  if  they  are  not  seconded  by  the 
precepts  and  conduct  of  the  father  and  the  mo 
ther.  The  child  must  not  only  read  of  goodness 
and  purity  in  the  books  which  are  placed  be 
fore  him  ;  he  must  read  of  them  in  the  looks,  the 
words,  and  the  actions  of  those  whom  nature  di 
rects  him  to  imitate,  and  habit  brings  him  to  re 
semble.  There  is  hardly  a  sight  so  distressing,  so 
alarming,  to  the  real  patriot  and  philanthropist,  as 
the  sight  of  parents,  who,  whatever  they  may  teach 
with  their  lips,  are  teaching  their  children,  day  by 
day,  in  the  constant  tenor  of  their  lives,  to  be  self 
ish,  to  be  frivolous,  to  be  worldly,  to  be  deceitful, 
to  prefer  earthly  things  to  heavenly,  to  cherish  the 
body  and  to  forget  the  soul. 

Parents  and  instructers  should  not  only  select 
good  books  for  those  who  are  committed  to  their 
oversight,  but  should  qualify  themselves  for  this 
and  other  kindred  duties,  by  reading  and  digesting 
the  best  books  on  education,  and  thus  instruct 
themselves.  Much  is  doubtless  to  be  left  to  the 


MORAL    EDUCATION.  275 

good  sense  and  daily  experience  of  those  who 
have  the  guidance  of  the  young  ;  but  we  should 
be  far  from  respecting  the  self-confidence  of  any 
one  who  should  think  himself  above  deriving  as 
sistance  from  such  books.  He  should  have  the 
care  of  no  child  of  ours.  And  yet  we  should 
dislike  a  literal  bigot  to  any  particular  system 
of  education,  as  much  as  we  dislike  a  bigot  to 
a  set  of  theological  articles,  or  any  system  what 
ever. 

As  moral  education  is  nearly  connected  with 
general  education,  the  instruction  which  is  given 
to  all  classes  of  society  should  be  as  generous  and 
liberal,  as  various  and  elevated,  as  means  and  cir 
cumstances  will  allow.  In  a  country  like  this,  if 
you  would  have  a  moral  people,  you  must  have 
an  educated  people,  a  people  who  are  taught 
something  more  than  to  read  and  write.  Do  not 
fear  that  education  will  make  the  poor  vain  and 
pedantic.  Be  assured  that  the  more  they  know, 
the  less  vain  they  will  be  of  their  knowledge. 
And  even  if  a  variety  of  information  should  have 
the  effect  upon  them  which  is  feared,  it  is  far  bet 
ter  that  they  should  be  vain  and  pedantic,  than 
coarse,  sensual,  and  criminal.  There  is  no  reason 
to  apprehend  that  any  considerable  number  of 
those  who  are  to  gain  their  living  by  their  toil, 
will  quit  their  tools  and  their  shops,  and  turn 


276  MISCELLANIES. 

knights-errant  in  a  dim  and  visionary  quest  of  lite 
rary  adventure.  A  few  individuals,  peculiarly 
constituted,  or  peculiarly  influenced,  may  do  so  ; 
but  common  sense  and  necessity  will  keep  all  the 
rest  to  the  work  or  employment  to  which  they  are 
bred,  and  for  which  they  are  fitted,  and  in  which, 
whatever  it  may  be,  every  one  may  raise  himself 
above  want  and  above  contempt.  The  great  evil 
to  be  apprehended  is  a  want  rather  than  an  excess 
of  a  disposition  to  mental  exertion  and  improve 
ment.  For  what  are  the  principal  causes  of  crime  ? 
They  are  inconsiderateness  and  idleness.  They 
are  the  want  of  habits  of  reflection,  and  the  want 
of  innocent  and  interesting  employment.  Both  of 
these  wants  are  supplied  by  education.  Teach 
people  to  reflect  and  give  them  the  means  of  men 
tal  occupation,  and  in  general  they  will  avoid 
crime,  because  they  will  be  aware  of  its  miserable 
consequences,  and  will  have  something  better  to 
think  of  and  to  accomplish.  Every  exercise  of 
the  mind  which  causes  it  to  know  how  to  use  it 
self,  and  every  species  of  information  which  fur 
nishes  it  with  objects  of  employment,  is  a  more 
powerful  security  against  crime,  than  any  physi 
cal  durance  which  can  be  devised. 

Let  everything  be  taught,  then,.for  which  there 
is  time  and  opportunity.  Away  with  that  libel 
and  insult  on  the  mind  of  man,  that  it  was  not 


MORAL    EDUCATION.  277 

formed  for  improvement,  and  that  knowledge  is 
not  good  for  it.  Pour  down  instruction  on  the 
land,  even  on  our  land,  like  rain,  for  even  yet  it  is 
dry  and  athirst.  "  Let  the  ridges  thereof  be  wa 
tered  abundantly.  Let  the  showers  drop  upon  the 
pastures  and  the  wilderness,  till  they  rejoice  on 
every  side,  and  shout  and  sing  !  " 


24 


RELIGION   OF   THE   SEA. 


"  In  every  object  here  I  see 
Something,  O  Lord,  that  leads  to  thee  ! 
Firm  as  the  rocks  thy  promise  stands, 
Thy  mercies  countless  as  the  sands, 
Thy  love  a  sea  immensely  wide, 
Thy  grace  an  ever- flowing  tide." 

J.  NEWTON. 

THE  ocean  is  wonderful  and  divine  in  its  forms 
and  changes  and  sounds,  in  its  grandeur,  its  beau 
ty,  its  variety,  its  inhabitants,  its  uses  and  its  mys 
teries,  in  all  that  strikes  the  sense  and  is  immedi 
ately  apprehended  by  the  understanding.  But 
besides  all  these,  and  lying  deeper  than  all,  it  pos 
sesses  a  moral  interest,  which  is  partly  bestowed 
upon  it,  and  partly  borrowed  from  it,  by  the  mind 
of  man.  The  soul  finds  in  it  a  fund  of  high  spirit 
ual  associations.  Analogies  are  perceived  in  it, 
which  connect  it  most  affectingly  with  our  mortal 
life,  with  dread  eternity,  and  with  Almighty  God 
himself,  the  source  and  end  of  all.  And  thus  it 


RELIGION    OF    THE    SEA. 

becomes  a  principal  link  in  that  great  chain  of 
purpose  and  sympathy,  with  which  the  Creator 
has  bound  up  all  matter  and  mind,  together  with 
his  own  infinite  being,  in  one  consenting  whole. 

The  sea  has  often  been  likened  to  this  our  life. 
Poetry  is  fond  of  remarking  resemblances  between 
it  and  the  passions  and  fortunes  of  humanity.  Our 
contemplations  launch  forth  on  its  capacious  bo 
som,  and  gather  up  the  images  and  shadowings  of 
our  existence  and  fate,  of  what  we  are,  and  what 
is  appointed  to  us.  Do  we  see  its  multitudinous 
waves  rushing  blindly  and  impetuously  along 
wherever  they  are  driven  by  the  lashing  wind  ? 
They  remind  us  of  the  tempest  of  an  angry  mind, 
or  the  tumult  of  an  enraged  people.  Are  the 
waves  hushed,  and  is  a  calm  breathed  over  the 
floods  ?  It  is  the  similitude  of  a  peaceful  breast, 
of  a  composed  and  placid  spirit,  or  a  quiet,  un 
troubled  time.  Doubts,  anxieties,  and  fears  pass 
over  our  minds,  as  clouds  do  over  the  sea,  tinging 
them,  as  the  clouds  tinge  the  waters,  with  their 
deep  and  threatening  hues.  Does  a  beaming  hope 
or  a  golden  joy  break  in  suddenly  upon  us,  in  the 
midst  of  care  or  misfortune  ?  What  is  it  but  a  ray 
of  light,  such  as  we  sometimes  behold  sent  down 
from  the  rifted  sky,  shining  alone  in  the  dark  hori 
zon,  a  sun-burst  on  a  sullen  sea  ? 

Then  how  often  are  the  vicissitudes  of  life  com- 


280  MISCELLANIES. 

pared  with  the  changes  of  the  ocean.  Who  that 
has  been  abroad  on  the  sea,  who  that  has  heard 
or  read  anything  of  its  phenomena,  does  not  know 
that  to  the  most  propitious  winds  and  skies  which 
can  bless  the  mariner,  frequently  succeed  those 
which  are  the  most  adverse  and  destructive  ;  that 
the  morning  may  rise  with  the  fairest  promises, 
bringing  the  favoring  breeze,  and  smiling  over  the 
pleasant  water,  and  ere  the  evening  falls,  or  be 
fore  high  noon  is  come,  the  scene  may  be  wrapt 
in  gloom,  the  steady  gale  may  be  converted  into 
the  savage  blast,  the  gay  sunbeams  may  be  fol 
lowed  by  the  blue  lightnings,  and  the  floods  above 
be  poured  down  on  the  floods  below,  as  if  together 
they  were  determined,  as  of  old,  to  drown  and 
desolate  the  world  ?  And  do  not  these  things  take 
place  in  the  voyage  of  human  life  ?  Who  knows 
not  how  often  youth  sets  sail  with  flattering  hopes 
and  brilliant  prospects,  which  are  changed  before 
manhood,  into  dreary  disappointment  or  black 
despair  ?  Who  knows  not  how  often  and  how 
suddenly  the  sun  of  prosperity  may  be  covered  up 
from  sight,  and  its  glowing  rays  be  quenched  in 
the  coldness  and  darkness  and  fearfulness  of  howl 
ing  adversity  ?  Who  knows  not  that  in  the  midst 
of  joy  and  peace,  the  billows  of  affliction  may  all 
at  once  rise  up,  and  roll  in  upon  the  soul  ?  "  All 
thy  waves  and  thy  billows  are  gone  over  me,"  cries 


RELIGION    OF    THE    SEA.  281 

the  mourning  Psalmist ;  and  again  he  complains, 
"  Thou  hast  laid  me  in  the  lowest  pit,  in  darkness, 
in  the  deeps.  Thy  wrath  lieth  hard  upon  me,  and 
thou  hast  afflicted  me  with  all  thy  waves."  And 
there  is  not,  perhaps,  in  all  literature,  sacred  or 
profane,  a  more  striking  image  of  dank,  weltering, 
utter  desolation,  than  is  contained  in  the  exclama 
tion  of  the  prophet  Jonah :  "  The  depth  closed 
me  round  about,"  says  he  ;  "  the  weeds  were  wrap 
ped  about  my  head." 

Though  no  voyage,  on  the  sea  or  in  life,  is  free 
from  vicissitudes,  yet  the  same  changes  happen 
not  to  all,  nor  do  all  suffer  the  same  or  equal  re 
verses.  Our  barks  are  all  abroad  on  the  wide 
surface  of  existence,  and  some  experience  more 
severe  and  frequent  storms,  or  more  baffling  winds 
than  others.  For  some,  the  gales  of  prosperity 
appear  to  blow,  as  we  may  say,  tropically,  so  fair 
and  steady  is  the  course  of  fortune  into  which  they 
seem  to  have  fallen  ;  while  others  appear  to  have 
encountered,  almost  at  the  outset,  an  unfavorable 
vein,  which  has  opposed,  wearied  and  persecuted 
them  to  the  very  end.  To  that  end  they  all  ar 
rive,  sooner  or  later.  The  ocean  has  many  har 
bors  ;  life  has  but  one.  It  is  safe  and  peaceful. 
There  the  tempests  cease  to  rage,  and  all  the 
winds  of  heaven  fold  up  their  wings,  and  rest. 
There  the  mariner  reposes  from  all  his  toils,  and 

24* 


282  MISCELLANIES. 

forgets  his  perils  and  fears,  his  watchings  and  fa 
tigues.  The  billows  are  without ;  they  foam  and 
toss  in  vain.  The  sails  are  furled,  and  the  anchors 
are  dropped.  "  We  sail  the  sea  of  life,"  says  the 
poet, 

"  We  sail  the  sea  of  life  —  a  calm  one  finds, 
And  one  a  tempest  —  and,  the  voyage  o'er, 
Death  is  the  quiet  haven  of  us  all." 

Thus  discourses  the  ocean  on  the  great  themes 
of  mortality  —  the  eloquent  ocean,  sounding  forth 
incessantly,  in  its  deep-toned  surges,  a  true  and 
dignified  philosophy ;  repeating  to  every  shore  the 
moral  and  the  mystery  of  human  life. 

But  it  does  something  more.  It  is  so  vast,  so 
uniform,  so  full,  so  all-enveloping,  that  it  leads  the 
thoughts  to  a  sublimer  theme  than  life  or  time,  to 
the  theme  of  dread  eternity.  When  contempla 
tions  on  this  subject  are  suggested  by  it,  human  life 
shrinks  up  into  a  stream,  wandering  through  a  va 
ried  land,  now  through  flowers,  and  now  through 
sands,  now  clearly  and  now  turbidly,  now  smoothly 
and  quietly,  and  now  obstructed  and  chafed,  till  it 
is  lost  at  last  in  the  mighty  ocean,  which  receives, 
and  feels  it  not.  There  is  nothing  among  the 
earthly  works  of  God,  which  brings  the  feeling  — 
for  it  can  hardly  be  termed  a  conception  —  the 
feeling  of  eternity  so  powerfully  to  the  soul,  as 


RELIGION    OF    THE    SEA.  283 

does  the  "  wide,  wide  sea."  We  look  upon  its 
waves,  succeeding  each  other  continually,  one  ris 
ing  up  as  another  vanishes,  and  we  think  of  the 
generations  of  men,  which  lift  up  their  heads  for 
a  while  and  then  pass  away,  one  after  the  other, 
for  all  the  noise  and  show  they  make,  even  as 
those  restless  and  momentary  waves.  Thus  the 
waves  and  the  ages  come  and  go,  appear  and  dis 
appear,  and  the  ocean  and  eternity  remain  the 
same,  undecaying  and  unaffected,  abiding  in  the 
unchanging  integrity  of  their  solemn  existence. 
We  stand  upon  the  solitary  shore,  and  we  hear 
the  surges  beat,  uttering  such  grand,  inimitable 
symphonies  as  are  fit  for  the  audience  of  cliffs  and 
skies  ;  and  our  minds  fly  back  through  years  and 
years,  to  that  time,  when,  though  we  were  not, 
and  our  fathers  were  not,  those  surges  were  yet 
beating,  incessantly  beating,  making  the  same  wild 
music,  and  heard  alone  by  the  overhanging  cliffs, 
and  the  overarching  skies,  which  silently  gave 
heed  to  it,  even  as  they  do  now.  In  the  presence 
of  this  old  and  united  company  we  feel  on  what 
an  exceedingly  small  point  we  stand,  and  how 
soon  we  shall  be  swept  away,  while  the  surges 
will  continue  to  beat  on  that  very  spot,  and  the 
cliffs  and  the  skies  will  still  lean  over  to  hear. 
This  is  what  may  be  called  the  feeling  of  eternity. 
Perhaps  the  feeling  is  rendered  yet  more  intense, 


284  MISCELLANIES. 

when  we  lie  on  our  bed,  musing  and  watching, 
and  hear  the  sonorous  cadences  of  the  waves  com 
ing  up  solemnly  and  soothingly  through  the  still 
ness  of  night.  It  is  as  the  voice  of  a  spirit  —  as 
the  voice  of  the  spirit  of  eternity.  The  ocean 
seems  now  to  be  a  living  thing,  ever  living  and 
ever  moving,  a  sleepless  influence,  a  personifica 
tion  of  unending  duration,  uttering  aloud  the  ora 
cles  of  primeval  truth. 

"  Listen  !  the  mighty  being  is  awake, 
And  doth  with  his  eternal  motion  make 
A  sound  like  thunder,  everlastingly." 

Where  are  the  myriads  of  men  who  have  trod 
den  its  shores,  and  gone  down  to  it  in  ships  ? 
They  are  passed  away.  Not  a  single  trace  has 
been  left  by  all  their  armaments.  Where  are  the 
old  kingdoms  which  were  once  washed  by  its 
waves  ?  They  have  been  changed,  and  changed 
again,  till  a  few  ruins  only  tell  where  they  stood. 
But  the  sea  is  all  the  same.  Man  can  place  no 
monuments  upon  it,  with  all  his  ambition  and 
pride.  It  suffers  not  even  a  ruin  to  speak  of  his 
triumphs  or  his  existence.  It  remains  as  young, 
as  strong,  as  free,  as  when  it  first  listened  to  the 
Almighty  Word,  and  responded  with  all  its  bil 
lows  to  the  song  of  the  morning  stars. 

"  Time  writes  no  wrinkle  on  thine  azure  brow  ; 
Such  as  creation's  dawn  beheld,  thou  rollest  now." 


RELIGION    OF    THE    SEA.  285 

It  is  this  immutability,  which,  more  than  any 
other  of  the  attributes  of  ocean,  perhaps,  impresses 
our  minds  with  the  sentiment  of  eternity,  and 
gives  to  it  its  character  of  superiority  among  the 
works  of  God.  Earth  never  frees  itself  entirely 
from  the  subjection  of  man.  It  constantly  re 
ceives  and  covers  his  fallen  remains,  indeed,  but 
is  made  to  bear  memorials  of  the  victor,  even  after 
he  is  vanquished.  All  over  the  world,  we  see  the 
vestiges  of  former  generations  ;  their  caves,  their 
wells,  their  pyramids,  their  roads,  their  towers, 
their  graves.  But  none  of  these  things  are  on  the 
sea.  Its  surface  is  unmarked  but  by  its  own  com 
motions  ;  and  when  it  buries  man  or  man's  works, 
the  sepulture  is  sudden  and  entire  ;  a  plunge,  a 
bubble,  and  the  waters  roll  on  as  before,  careless 
of  the  momentary  interruption  of  their  wonted 
flowing.  Thus  immutable,  thus  unworn  and  un 
sullied  is  ocean.  To  what  shall  it  be  compared, 
but  to  the  highest  subjects  of  thought,  to  life  and 
to  immortality  ?  It  allies  itself  in  its  greatness 
more  with  spirit  than  with  matter.  It  holds  itself 
above  subjection  or  control.  It  seems  to  have  a 
will,  a  liberty,  and  a  power. 

As  these  are  high  associations,  they  readily  lead 
us  up  to  Him  who  is  above  all  height.  There 
is  a  natural  connection  between  all  sublime  and 
pure  sentiment,  and  the  conception  of  Deity.  All 


MISCELLANIES, 

grandeur  directs  us  to  him,  because  we  have  learnt 
that  he  is  greatest.  We  cannot  stop  in  the  crea 
ture,  after  we  have  received  any  true  ideas  of  the 
Creator.  And  thus  God  himself  comes,  as  if  by 
an  influence  of  his  spirit,  into  our  minds,  when  we 
are  looking  upon  the  sea,  or  listening  to  its  roar, 
and  imbibing  the  emotions  which  it  is  so  powerful 
to  excite.  Where  he  comes,  he  reigns.  The  con 
ception  of  God,  when  it  enters,  takes  the  throne 
of  authority  among  the  other  thoughts,  and  brings 
them  into  easy  subordination.  And  then  we  think 
how  inferior  and  dependent  are  all  might  and  ma 
jesty,  compared  with  his.  The  eternity  of  ocean 
becomes  a  brief  type  of  the  eternity  of  him  who 
made  it,  and  all  its  grandeur  as  a  passing  shadow 
of  his.  It  does  not,  however,  lose  any  of  its  inter 
est,  by  this  kind  of  inferiority.  Nothing  is  les 
sened  to  the  pious  mind,  by  being  esteemed  less 
than  the  Supreme.  It  retains  its  connection  with 
eternity  and  God,  and  is  exalted  by  its  glorious 
dependence.  It  puts  on  the  aspect,  and  speaks 
with  the  added  solemnity  of  religion  ;  telling  us 
that  all  its  power  and  magnificence  are  from  the 
Maker,  and  that  if  it  is  full  of  beauty,  and  life,  and 
usefulness,  and  mystery,  it  is  because  the  Maker 
is  good  and  wise  and  infinite.  The  sea  has  been 
called  the  religious  sea.  It  is  religious,  as  it  sug 
gests  religious  thoughts  and  emotions.  And  as 


RELIGION    OF    THE    SEA.  287 

the  feelings  excited  by  a  noble  object  in  a  con 
templative  soul,  are  always  in  some  degree  re 
flected  back  upon  that  object,  the  sea  will  appear 
to  be  in  its  own  self  religious  ;  to  know  that  it  is 
lying  in  the  hollow  of  the  Almighty's  hand  ;  to 
chant  loud  anthems  to  his  praise  in  the  noise  of  its 
rushing  floods,  and  to  send  up  its  more  quiet  de 
votions  in  the  breathing  stillness  of  its  calms.  In 
short,  we  know  nothing  of  the  sea  as  we  ought  to 
know,  we  feel  nothing  of  its  best  and  sublimest 
inspirations,  unless  we  receive  from  it,  and  com 
municate  to  it,  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  reli 
gion  ;  unless  we  grow  devout  as  we  gaze,  and 
return  from  contemplating  it  with  the  conscious 
ness  that  we  have  entered  into  a  nearer  union  with 
God. 

The  moral  associations  which  have  now  been 
described  as  naturally  arising  from  the  soul's  con 
verse  with  the  sea,  are  all  in  a  great  degree  defi 
nite.  The  deep  is,  as  it  were,  freighted  and  laden 
with  them,  and  bears  them  richly  to  our  receiving 
bosoms.  And  when  we  look  out  upon  the  ocean, 
without  fixing  on  either  of  these  associations  as  the 
direct  subject  of  thought,  it  is  the  union  of  several 
or  of  all  of  them,  which,  almost  unconsciously  to 
us,  produces  such  a  strong  impression  within  us. 
But  besides  these  sentiments,  which  can  be  traced 
and  numbered,  there  are  feelings  suggested  by 


288  MISCELLANIES. 

that  magnificent  object,  which  cannot  so  well,  if 
at  all,  be  defined.  I  believe  that  no  one,  who 
loves  nature,  has  let  his  soul  go  out  on  the  sea, 
without  experiencing  emotions  which  he  could  not 
possibly  explain,  but  which  were  as  real  as  any 
that  he  ever  felt.  All  that  "he  can  tell  of  them,  is, 
that  they  are  elevating  and  refining.  Further 
than  this  he  cannot  communicate  them,  for  they 
baffle  all  description  and  search.  It  seems  to  him, 
sometimes,  as  he  waits  and  watches  on  the  shore, 
that  the  great  Spirit  himself  moves,  as  in  the  be 
ginning,  on  the  face  of  the  waters,  and  speaks  to 
him  holy  words,  which,  though  he  hears  and  im 
bibes,  he  cannot  fully  understand  ;  which  he  knows 
not  now,  but  will  know  hereafter.  They  come 
like  whispers  of  that  communion,  intelligence,  and 
consent  which  pervade  creation.  They  teach  us 
something  of  our  unrevealed  connections,  some 
thing  of  the  unseen  and  unimaginable  future  ;  and, 
if  so  be  that  we  are  disposed  to  bring  down  all 
our  faith  and  trust  to  that  alone  which  we  can 
touch  and  clearly  define,  they  gently  rebuke. us 
for  our  coldness,  and  intimate  to  us  that  there  are 
more,  many  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth  and 
sea,  than  are  dreamt  of  in  our  philosophy. 

I  have  spoken  as  I  was  able,  and  not  as  I  could 
have  desired,  of  the  "  great  and  wide  sea."  Let 
the  rest  be  learnt  by  each  one,  where  it  can  be 


RELIGION   OF    THE    SEA.  289 

learnt  much  better  than  from  me,  from  the  sea 
itself.  If  I  have  induced  a  single  individual,  who 
has  hitherto  regarded  it  as  a  barren  collection  of 
waters,  or  a  medium  of  traffic  merely,  to  look 
upon  it  as  something  more  wonderful,  divine,  and 
useful  than  this,  I  am  satisfied.  If  his  curiosity  is 
at  all  excited,  let  him  go  to  the  sea-shore,  and  get 
wisdom.  If  his  devout  affections  are  at  all  moved, 
let  him  go  to  the  ocean,  and  worship. 

"  His  choir  shall  be  the  moonlight  waves, 
When  murmuring  homeward  to  their  caves  ; 
Or,  when  the  stillness  of  the  sea, 
Even  more  than  music,  breathes  of  Thee  !  " 

Every  object  in  nature  yields  instruction  to  the 
teachable  and  listening  mind  ;  but  some  objects 
utter  a  voice  more  powerful,  more  commanding, 
more  thrilling,  than  others.  If  we  may  find,  as 
one  of  the  best  English  poets  tells  us  we  may, 
"  sermons  in  stones,"  in  lifeless  stones,  what  elo 
quent  and  soul-stirring  addresses  may  we  not  hear 
from  the  living,  glorious,  beautiful,  eternal  sea  ! 


25 


FALLS  OF   THE    NIAGARA. 


THERE  is  a  power  and  beauty,  I  may  say  a  di 
vinity,  in  rushing  waters,  felt  by  all  who  acknow 
ledge  any  sympathy  with  nature.  The  mountain 
stream,  leaping  from  rock  to  rock,  and  winding, 
foaming,  and  glancing  through  its  devious  and 
stony  channels,  arrests  the  eye  of  the  most  care 
less  or  business-bound  traveller  ;  sings  to  the  heart 
and  haunts  the  memory  of  the  man  of  taste  and 
imagination,  and  holds,  as  by  some  undefinable 
spell,  the  affections  of  those  who  inhabit  its  bor 
ders.  A  waterfall,  of  even  a  few  feet  in  height, 
will  enliven  the  dullest  scenery,  and  lend  a  charm 
to  the  loveliest ;  while  a  high  and  headlong  cata 
ract  has  always  been  ranked  among  the  sublimest 
objects  to  be  found  in  the  compass  of  the  globe. 

It  is  no  matter  of  surprise,  therefore,  that  lovers 
of  nature  perform  journeys  of  homage  to  that 
sovereign  of  cataracts,  that  monarch  of  all  pouring 
floods,  the  Falls  of  Niagara.  It  is  no  matter  of 
surprise,  that,  although  situated  in  what  might 


FALLS    OF    THE   NIAGARA.  291 

have  been  called,  a  few  years  ago,  but  cannot  be 
now,  the  wilds  of  North  America,  five  hundred 
miles  from  the  Atlantic  coast,  travellers  from  all 
civilized  parts  of  the  world  have  encountered  all 
the  difficulties  and  fatigues  of  the  path,  to  behold 
this  prince  of  waterfalls  amidst  its  ancient  soli 
tudes,  and  that,  more  recently,  the  broad  high 
ways  to  its  dominions  have  been  thronged.  By 
universal  consent  it  has  long  ago  been  proclaimed 
one  of  the  wonders  of  the  world.  It  is  alone  in 
its  kind.  Though  a  waterfall,  it  is  not  to  be  com 
pared  with  other  waterfalls.  In  its  majesty,  its 
supremacy,  and  its  influence  on  the  soul  of  man, 
its  brotherhood  is  with  the  living  ocean  and  the 
eternal  hills. 

I  am  humbly  conscious  that  no  words  of  mine 
can  give  an  adequate  description,  or  convey  a  sat- 
•  isfactory  idea,  of  Niagara  Falls.  But  having  just 
returned  from  a  visit  to  them,1  with  the  impression 
which  they  made  upon  my  mind  fresh  and  deep, 
I  may  hope  to  impart  at  least  a  faint  image  of  that 
impression  to  the  minds  of  those  who  have  not 
seen  them,  and  retouch,  perhaps,  some  fading 
traces  in  the  minds  of  those  who  have.  And  if  I 
can  call  the  attention  of  any  to  this  glorious  object 
as  a  work  of  God,  and  an  echo  of  the  voice  of 

1  The  visit  was  made  with  some  friends,  in  July,  1831. 


292  MISCELLANIES. 

God  ;  if  by  anything  which  I  may  fitly  say  of  it, 
I  can  quicken  the  devotion  of  one  breast,  I  shall 
feel  that  I  have  fulfilled  a  sacred  duty,  and  that  I 
have  not  unworthily  expressed  my  sense  of  obli 
gation  for  having  been  permitted  to  behold  it  my 
self. 

I  will  not  begin  my  description  with  the  cata 
ract  itself,  but  take  you  back  to  the  great  lake  from 
which  the  Niagara  flows,  so  that  you  may  go  down 
its  banks  as  I  did,  and  approach  the  magnificent 
scene  with  a  knowledge  regularly  and  accumu 
latively  gained  of  its  principal  accessories.  For 
the  river  and  the  lake,  nay,  the  whole  superb  chain 
of  rivers  and  lakes,  should  be  taken  into  view, 
when  we  would  conceive  as  we  ought  of  the  falls 
of  Niagara. 

As  we  approach  the  town  of  Buffalo,  which  is 
situated  near  the  eastern  extremity  of  Lake  Erie, 
that  wide-spread  sheet  of  water  opens  to  the  sight. 
If  the  traveller  has  never  seen  the  ocean,  he  may 
here  imagine  that  he  sees  it.  If  he  has,  he  will 
say  that  it  is  a  sea  view  which  here  lies  before 
him.  As  he  looks  to  the  west,  the  horizon  only 
bounds  the  liquid  expanse  ;  and  it  is  not  till  he 
descends  to  the  shore,  and  marks  the  peculiar, 
quiet,  and  exact  level  of  the  even  and  sleeping 
lake,  that  he  will  find  anything  to  remind  him  that 
he  is  not  on  the  coast  of  the  salt  and  swelling  sea. 


FALLS    OF    THE    NIAGARA. 


293 


Four  miles  north  from  Buffalo,  we  come  to  the 
village  of  Black  Rock  ; l  and  it  is  here  that  the 
boundaries  of  the  lake  contract,  and  its  waters  be 
gin  to  pour  themselves  out  through  the  sluiceway 
of  the  Niagara  river.  The  river  is  at  this  place 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  broad  ;  and,  as  I  gazed 
on  its  dark  and  deep  and  hurrying  stream,  I  felt  a 
sensation  of  interest  stealing  over  me,  similar  to 
that  which  I  have  experienced  in  reading  of  the 
preparations  of  men  for  some  momentous  expedi 
tion.  Opposite  Black  Rock,  on  the  Canada  side, 
is  the  village  of  Waterloo,  to  which  we  were  fer 
ried  over,  and  from  which  we  commenced  our 
ride  down  the  river,  which  runs  north  into  Lake 
Ontario.  There  is  also  a  road  on  the  American 
side,  from  Buffalo  to  the  Falls,  a  distance,  either 
way,  of  about  fifteen  miles. 

From  Waterloo  we  pass  on  by  a  level  road,  im 
mediately  on  the  western  bank  of  the  Niagara,  and 
observe  that  the  river  continually  becomes  wider, 
till  at  length  it  divides  into  two  streams  which 
sweep  round  an  island  several  miles  in  length. 
They  then  unite  again,  forming  one  stream  as 
before,  only  that  it  is  increased  in  breadth  and 

1  According  to   Mr.    Featherstonhaugh,   editor  of   the    Monthly 
American  Journal  of  Geology  and  Natural  Science,  the  "  seams  and 
patches  of  dark-colored  chert,  contained  in  the  beds  of  carboniferous 
limestone,"  have  furnished  its  name  to  this  village. 
25* 


294  MISCELLANIES. 

swiftness.  And  now  the  interest  thickens,  and 
begins  to  grow  intense.  Hitherto  we  had  been 
travelling  on  the  side  of  a  large  river,  it  is  true, 
but  one  not  much  distinguished  otherwise,  either 
by  its  motion,  its  shape,  or  the  beauty  of  its  bor 
ders.  We  are  obliged  to  call  on  ourselves  to  con 
sider  where  we  are,  and  whither  we  are  going ; 
for  Niagara  itself  seems  unconscious  of  the  grand 
associations  with  which  it  is  freighted.  It  moves 
as  if  unmindful,  or  as  not  caring  to  put  the  travel 
ler  in  mind,  that  its  waters  have  come  down 
through  the  whole  length  of  Erie  from  the  far 
away  Huron,  Michigan,  Superior  ;  that  they  are 
just  about  to  rush  over  the  wondrous  precipice 
below,  and  theji  are  to  hasten  forward  into  an 
other  majestic  lake,  and  from  it  are  to  pass  through 
the  portals  of  a  thousand  islands,  and  the  alternate 
rapids  and  lakes  of  a  noble  and  romantic  river, 
washing  the  feet  of  cities,  and  so  to  flow  on  into 
the  all-receiving  sea.  We  are  obliged  to  remem 
ber  this,  I  say ;  for  the  unpretending  waters, 
though  pressing  forward  continually  and  intently, 
have  thus  far  told  us  nothing,  themselves,  of  their 
long  pilgrimage  behind,  or  the  yet  more  eventful 
journey  before  them.  But  here,  as  they  are  meet 
ing  round  Grand  Island,  they  break  their  silence 
and  speak,  and  the  whole  scene  becomes  full  of 
spirit  and  meaning.  Here,  about  three  miles  from 


PALLS    OF    THE    NIAGARA.  295 

the  Falls,  you  see  the  white-crested  rapids  tossing 
in  the  distance  before  you.  Here,  even  in  the 
most  unfavorable  state  of  the  weather,  you  hear 
the  voice  of  the  cataract,  pervading  the  air  with 
its  low,  monotonous,  continuous  roar.  And  here 
you  see  a  column  of  mist  rising  up,  like  a  smoke 
in  distantly  burning  woods,  and  designating  the 
sublime  scene  over  which  it  is  immediately  hang 
ing.  I  know  not  that  I  was  afterward  more 
strongly  affected,  even  by  the  Falls  themselves, 
than  I  was  by  the  sight  of  this  ever-changing  and 
yet  never  absent  guide,  this  cloudy  pillar,  this 
floating,  evanescent,  and  yet  eternal  testimony, 
which  pointed  out  to  me  the  exact  spot  which  had 
been  for  so  many  years  as  a  shrine  to  thousands, 
which  I  had  heard  of  and  read  of  so  long,  and 
which  I  had  myself  so  often  visited,  though  not  in 
person,  yet  with  my  reverential  wishes,  with  my 
mind,  and  with  my  heart.  Childhood  came  back 
to  me,  with  its  indistinct,  but  highly  wrought  and 
passionate  images  ;  maps  were  unrolled  ;  books 
were  opened  ;  paintings  were  spread  ;  measure 
ments  were  recalled  ;  all  the  efforts  which  the  art 
of  man  had  made,  all  the  tributes  which  his  spirit 
had  offered,  at  the  call  of  the  great  cataract  ;  all 
these  associations,  with  other  dreamlike  thoughts 
of  the  wilderness,  the  lake,  and  the  stream,  rose 
up  unbidden  and  with  power  within  me,  as  I  stead- 


296  MISCELLANIES. 

fastly  regarded  that  significant,  far-off  mist,  and 
knew  that  I,  too,  was  soon  to  stand  on  the  conse 
crated  spot,  and  see.  and  feel. 

A  mile  or  two  is  soon  passed,  and  now  we  turn 
a  little  from  the  road  to  the  right,  in  order  to  have 
a  near  view  of  the  rapids.  These  occupy  the 
whole  breadth  of  the  river,  from  shore  to  shore, 
and  extend  half  a  mile  back  from  the  Falls,  and 
are  formed  by  the  rush  of  the  entire  body  of  wa 
ters  down  a  rough  bed,  the  descent  of  which  in 
the  course  of  this  half  mile  is  fifty  feet.  Here  all 
is  tumult  and  impetuous  haste.  The  view  is  some 
thing  like  that  of  the  sea  in  a  violent  gale.  Thou 
sands  of  waves  dash  eagerly  forward,  and  indicate 
the  interruptions  which  they  meet  with  from  the 
hidden  rocks,  by  ridges  and  streaks  of  foam. 
Terminating  this  angry  picture,  you  distinguish 
the  crescent  rim  of  the  British  Fall,  over  which 
the  torrent  pours,  and  disappears.  The  wilder 
ness  and  the  solitude  of  the  scene  are  strikingly 
impressive.  Nothing  that  lives  is  to  be  seen  in  its 
whole  extent.  "Nothing  that  values  its  life,  ever 
dares  venture  it  there.  The  waters  refuse  the 
burden  of  man,  and  of  man's  works.  Of  this  they 
give  fair  and  audible  warning,  of  which  all  take 
heed.  They  have  one  engrossing  object  before 
them,  and  they  go  to  its  accomplishment  alone. 

Returning  to  the  road,  we  ride  the  last  half  mile, 


FALLS    OF    THE    NIAGARA.  297 

ascending  gradually,  till  we  come  to  the  public 
house.  A  footpath  through  the  garden  at  the  back 
of  the  house,  and  down  a  steep  and  thickly-wooded 
bank,  brings  us  upon  Table  Rock,  a  flat  ledge  of 
limestone,  forming  the  brink  of  the  precipice,  the 
upper  stratum  of  which  is  a  jagged  shelf,  no  more 
than  about  afoot  in  thickness,  jutting  out  over  the 
gulf  below.  Here  the  whole  scene  breaks  upon 
us.  Looking  up  the  river,  we  face  the  grand  cre 
scent,  called  the  British  or  Horseshoe  Fall.  Op 
posite  to  us  is  Goat  Island,  which  divides  the  Falls, 
and  lower  down  to  the  left,  is  the  American  Fall. 
And  what  is  the  first  impression  made  upon  the 
beholder  ?  Decidedly,  I  should  say,  that  of  beau 
ty  ;  of  sovereign,  majestic  beauty,  it  is  true,  but 
still  that  of  beauty,  soul-filling  beauty,  rather  than 
of  awful  sublimity.  Everything  is  on  so  large  a 
scale  ;  the  height  of  the  cataract  is  so  much  ex 
ceeded  by  its  breadth,1  and  so  much  concealed  by 
the  volumes  of  mist  which  wrap  and  shroud  its 
feet ;  you  stand  so  directly  on  the  same  level  with 
the  falling  waters  ;  you  see  so  large  a  portion  of 
them  at  a  considerable  distance  from  you  ;  and 
their  roar  comes  up  so  moderated  from  the  deep 
abyss,  that  the  loveliness  of  the  scene,  at  first  sight 


1  The  height  of  the  Horseshoe  Fall  is  150  feet ;  its  breadth  2376 
feet. 


298  MISCELLANIES. 

is  permitted  to  take  precedence  of  its  grandeur, 
Its  coloring  alone  is  of  the  most  exquisite  kind. 
The  deep  sea-green  of  the  centre  of  the  crescent, 
where  it  is  probable  the  greatest  mass  of  water 
falls,  lit  up  with  successive  flashes  of  foam,  and 
contrasted  with  the  rich,  creamy  whiteness  of  the 
two  sides  or  wings  of  the  same  crescent ;  then  the 
sober  gray  of  the  opposite  precipice  of  Goat  Is 
land,  crowned  with  the  luxuriant  foliuge  of  its 
forest  trees,  and  connected  still  further  on  with  the 
pouring  snows  of  the  greater  and  less  American 
Falls  ;  the  agitated  and  foamy  surface  of  the  wa 
ters  at  the  bottom  of  the  Falls,  followed  by  the 
darkness  of  their  hue  as  they  sweep  along  through 
the  perpendicular  gorge  beyond  ;  the  mist,  float 
ing  about,  and  veiling  objects  with  a  softening  in 
distinctness  ;  and  the  bright  rainbow  which  is  con 
stant  to  the  sun  —  altogether  form  a  combination 
of  color,  changing  too  with  every  change  of  light, 
every  variation  of  the  wind,  and  every  hour  of  the 
day,  which  the  painter's  art  cannot  imitate,  and 
which  nature  herself  has  perhaps  only  effected 
here. 

And  the  motion  of  these  Falls,  how  wonderfully 
fine  it  is  !  how  graceful,  how  stately,  how  calm  ! 
There  is  nothing  in  it  hurried  or  headlong,  as  you 
might  have  supposed.  The  eye  is  so  long  in  mea 
suring  the  vast,  and  yet  unacknowledged  height, 


FALLS    OF    THE    NIAGARA.  299 

that  they  seem  to  move  over  almost  slowly  ;  the 
central  and  most  voluminous  portion  of  the  Horse 
shoe  even  goes  down  silently.  The  truth  is,  that 
pompous  phrases  cannot  describe  these  Falls. 
Calm  and  deeply-meaning  words  should  alone  be 
used  in  speaking  of  them.  Anything  like  hyper 
bole  would  degrade  them,  if  they  could  be  de 
graded.  But  they  cannot  be.  Neither  the  words 
nor  the  deeds  of  man  degrade  or  disturb  them. 
There  they  pour  over,  in  their  collected  might  and 
dignified  flowing,  steadily,  constantly,  as  they  al 
ways  have  been  pouring  since  they  came  from  the 
hollow  of  His  hand,  and  you  can  add  nothing  to 
them,  nor  can  you  take  anything  from  them. 

As  I  rose,  on  the  morning  following  my  arrival, 
and  went  to  the  window  for  an  early  view,  a  sin 
gular  fear  came  over  me  that  the  Falls  might  have 
passed  away,  though  their  sound  was  in  my  ears. 
It  was,  to  be  sure,  rather  the  shadow  of  a  fear 
than  a  fear,  and  reason  dissipated  it  as  soon  as  it 
was  formed.  But  the  bright  things  of  earth  are 
so  apt  to  be  fleeting,  and  we  are  so  liable  to  lose 
what  is  valued  as  soon  as  it  is  bestowed,  that  I  be 
lieve  it  was  a  perfectly  natural  feeling  which  sug 
gested  to  me  for  an  instant,  that  I  had  enjoyed 
quite  as  much  of  such  a  glorious  exhibition  as  I 
deserved,  and  that  I  had  no  right  to  expect  that  it 
would  continue,  as  long  as  I  might  be  pleased  to 


300  MISCELLANIES. 

behold.  But  the  Falls  were  there,  with  their  full, 
regular,  and  beautiful  flowing.  The  clouds  of 
spray  and  mist  were  now  dense  and  high,  and 
completely  concealed  the  opposite  shores  ;  but  as 
the  day  advanced,  and  the  beams  of  the  sun  in 
creased  in  power,  they  were  thinned  and  con 
tracted.  Presently  a  thunder  shower  rose  up  from 
the  west,  and  passed  directly  over  us  ;  and  soon 
another  came,  still  heavier  than  the  preceding. 
And  now  I  was  more  impressed  than  ever  with 
the  peculiar  motion  of  the  Fall ;  not,  however,  be 
cause  it  experienced  a  change,  but  because  it  did 
not.  The  lightning  gleamed,  the  thunder  pealed, 
the  rain  fell  in  torrents  ;  the  storms  were  grand  ; 
but  the  Fall,  if  I  may  give  its  expression  a  lan 
guage,  did  not  heed  them  at  all ;  the  rapids  above 
raged  no  more  and  no  less  than  before,  and  the 
Fall  poured  on  with  the  same  quiet  solemnity, 
with  the  same  equable  intentness,  undisturbed  by 
the  lightning  and  rain,  and  listening  not  to  the  loud 
thunder. 

About  half  a  mile  below  the  Horseshoe  Fall,  a 
commodious  road  has  lately  been  cut  in  a  slanting 
direction,  down  the  side  of  the  perpendicular  cliff, 
and  through  the  solid  rock,  to  the  river.  Here 
we  find  a  regular  ferry,  and  are  conveyed  in  a 
small  boat  across  the  stream,  which  is  now  nar 
rowed  to  a  breadth  of  about  twelve  hundred  feet, 


FALLS    OF    THE    NIAGARA.  301 

to  the  American  side.  The  passage  is  perfectly 
safe,  and,  though  short,  delightful,  as  it  affords  a 
superb  view  of  both  the  Falls  above,  and  of  the 
dark  river  below.  The  current  is  not  very  rapid, 
and  near  the  American  side  actually  sets  up  to 
ward  the  Falls  ;  by  the  help  of  which  eddy  the 
boat  regains  what  it  had  lost  in  the  middle  of  the 
stream.  We  land  almost  directly  at  the  feet  of 
the  American  Fall,  and  by  walking  a  little  way  to 
the  right,  may  place  ourselves  in  its  spray.  Now 
look  up,  and  the  height  will  not  disappoint  you. 
Now  attend  to  the  voice  of  the  cataract,  and  it 
will  fill  your  soul  with  awe.  It  seems  as  if  the 
"waters  which  are  above  the  firmament"  were 
descending  from  the  heights  of  heaven,  and  as  if 
"  the  fountains  of  the  great  deep  Avere  broken  np  " 
from  belo\v.  The  noise,  which  permits  free  con 
versation  to  those  who  are  on  the  bank  above,  is 
here  imperative  and  deafening.  It  resembles  the 
perpetual  rolling  of  near  thunder,  or  the  uninter 
rupted  discharge  of  a  battery  of  heavy  ordnance, 
mingled  with  a  strange  crashing  and  breaking 
sound.  This  resemblance  to  the  roar  of  artillery 
is  heightened  by  the  sight  of  the  large  bodies  of 
spray,  which  are  continually  and  with  immense 
force  exploded  from  the  abyss.  The  impression 
of  superior  height  is  gained,  not  so  much  from  the 
fact  that  the  American  Fall  is  actually  ten  or 
26 


302  MISCELLANIES. 

twelve  feet  higher  than  the  British,  as  from  your 
having  a  complete  profile  view  of  the  one,  from 
brink  to  base,  which  you  cannot  well  obtain  of  the 
other. 

Flights  of  secure  wooden  steps  bring  us  to  the 
top  of  the  bank,1  where  we  again  stand  on  a  level 
with  the  descending  Falls.  We  soon  found  that 
the  greatest  variety  of  interest  was  on  this,  the 
American  side.  The  village  of  Manchester  is  sit 
uated  on  the  rapid,  just  above  the  Fall.  A  bridge 
is  thrown  boldly  over  the  rushing  and  "  arrowy  " 
rapid  to  a  small  island,  called  Bath  Island,  where 
there  are  one  or  two  dwellings  and  a  paper-mill ; 
and  from  this  spot  another  bridge  runs  with  equal 
boldness  to  Goat  Island.  The  whole  breadth  of 
the  space  thus  traversed  is  one  thousand  and 
seventy-two  feet. 

Goat  Island  is  a  paradise.  I  do  not  believe 
that  there  is  a  spot  in  the  world,  which,  within  the 
same  space,  comprises  so  much  grandeur  and 
beauty.  It  is  but  about  a  mile  in  circumference, 


1  On  this  bank,  near  the  ferry-house,  there  is  a  stone  embedded  in 
the  ground,  rudely  carved,  on  which  there  has  lately  been  discovered, 
by  removing  the  moss  which  had  grown  over  it,  the  following  in 
scription  :  I.  V.  1747.  This  is  by  far  the  most  ancient  date  to  be 
found  in  the  vicinity.  I.  V.,  whoever  he  was,  when  he  looked  upon 
the  Falls,  must  have  been  surrounded  by  a  perfect  wilderness.  What 
poet  will  speak  in  his  name,  and  describe  his  feelings,  and  record  his 
thoughts,  as  he  stood  here  alone  with  God  ? 


FALLS    OF    THE    NIAGARA.  303 

and  in  that  mile  you  have  a  forest  of  tall  old  trees, 
many  of  them  draperied  with  climbing  and  cleav 
ing  ivy  ;  a  rich  variety  of  wild  shrubs  and  plants  ; 
several  views  of  the  rapids  ;  an  opportunity  to  pass 
without  discomfort  under  the  smaller  American 
Fall,  and  the  very  finest  view,  I  will  venture  to 
say,  of  the  great  Crescent,  or  Horseshoe  Fall. 
Turn  to  the  left,  as  you  enter  this  Eden,  and  you 
come  out  into  a  cleared  and  open  spot,  on  which 
you  discern  a  log-hut,  with  vines  round  its  door 
and  windows,  and  a  little  garden  in  front  of  it, 
running  down  to  the  water's  edge  ;  a  flock  of 
sheep  feeding  quietly,  or  reposing  pleasantly,  un 
der  scattered  clumps  of  graceful  trees  ;  while,  be 
yond  this  scene  of  rural  repose,  you  see  the  whole 
field  of  the  rapids,  bearing  down  in  full  force  upon 
this  point  of  their  division,  as  if  determined  to 
sweep  it  away.  Or,  turn  to  the  right,  and  thread 
ing  the  shady  forest,  step  aside  to  the  margin  of 
the  smaller  American  Fall,1  and  bathe  your  hands, 
if  you  please,  in  its  just  leaping  waters.  Then, 
pursuing  the  circuit  of  the  island,  descend  a  spiral 
flight  of  stairs,  and  treading  cautiously  along  a 
narrow  footpath,  cut  horizontally  in  the  side  of  the 

4& 

1  This  is  separated  from  the  greater  Fall  by  a  diminutive  island, 
covered  with  trees,  which  tenaciously  maintains  its  terrible  position, 
in  emulation,  as  it  were,  of  Goat  Island.  This  lesser  Fall,  small  as 
it  is,  compared  with  the  others,  would  of  itself  be  worth  a  journey. 


304  MISCELLANIES. 

- 

cliff,  enter  the  magnificent  hall  formed  by  the  fall 
ing  flood,  the  bank  of  which  you  have  just  left, 
and  command  your  nerves  for  a  few  moments, 
that,  standing  as  you  do  about  midway  in  the  de 
scent  of  the  Fall,  you  may  look  up,  eighty  feet,  to 
its  arched  and  crystal  roof,  and  down,  eighty  feet, 
on  its  terrible  and  misty  and  resounding  floor. 
You  will  never  forget  that  sight  and  sound. 

Retrace  your  steps  to  the  upper  bank,  and  then, 
if  your  strength  holds  out,  proceed  a  short  way 
further  to  the  enjoyment  of  a  view,  already  referred 
to,  which  excels  every  other  in  this  place  of  many 
wonders.  It  is  obtained  from  a  bridge  or  plat 
form,  which  has  recently  been  thrown  out  over 
some  rocks,1  and  is  carried  to  the  very  brink  of 
the  Horseshoe  Fall,  and  even  projects  beyond  it  ; 
so  that  the  spectator  at  the  end  of  the  platform,  is 
actually  suspended  over  it.  And  if  he  is  alone, 
and  gives  way  to  his  feelings,  he  must  drop  upon 
his  knees,  for  the  grandeur  of  the  scene  is  over- 
powering.  The  soul  is  elevated,  and  at  the  same 
time  subdued,  as  in  an  awful  and  heavenly  pre 
sence.  Deity  is  there.  The  brooding  and  com 
manding  Spirit  is  there.  "  The  Lord  is  upon  many 
waters."  Tha  heights  and  the  depths,  the  sha 
dows  and  the  sunlight,  the  foam,  the  mist,  the  rain- 

1  These  are  called  the  Terrapin  Rocks. 


FALLS    OF    THE    NIAGARA.  305 

bows,  the  gushing  showers  of  diamonds,  the  beauty 
and  the  power  and  the  majesty  all  around  and 
beneath,  environ  the  spirit  with  holiest  influences, 
and  without  violence  compel  it  to  adore.  "  Deep 
calleth  unto  deep."  The  cataract,  from  its  mys 
terious  depths,  calleth  with  its  thunder,  back  to  the 
deep  lake,  and  up  to  the  deep  sky,  and  forward 
to  the  deep  ocean,  and  far  inward  to  the  deep  of 
man's  soul.  And  the  answer  of  the  lake,  and  the 
answer  of  the  sky,  and  the  answer  of  the  ocean, 
are  praise  to  the  Maker,  praise  to  Him  who  sit- 
teth  above  the  water-flood,  praise  to  Almighty 
God  !  And  where  is  the  soul,  which  will  not  also 
hear  that  call,  and  answer  it  even  with  a  clearer 
and  louder  answer,  and  cry,  Praise  to  the  Creator, 
praise  to  the  infinite  and  holy  and  blessed  God  ! 

These  Falls  are  not  without  their  history  ;  but, 
like  their  depths,  it  is  enveloped  with  clouds. 
Geologists  suppose,  and  with  good  apparent  rea 
son,  that  time  was  when  the  Niagara  fell  over  the 
abrupt  bank  at  QueenstowTi,  between  six  and  se 
ven  miles  below  the  place  of  the  present  Falls, 
and  that  it  has,  in  the  lapse  of  unknown  and  in 
calculable  years,  been  wearing  away  the  gulf  in 
the  intermediate  distance,  and  toiling  and  travel 
ling  through  the  rock,  back  to  its  parent  lake. 
The  abrupt  termination  of  the  high  bank  and  table 
land  at  Queenstown ;  the  correspondence  of  the 
26* 


306  MISCELLANIES. 

opposite  cliffs  to  each  other  all  the  way  up  to  the 
Falls  ;  the  masses  of  superincumbent  limestone, 
which  both  the  American  and  Canadian  cataracts 
hurl,  from  time  to  time,  into  the  boiling  abyss,1  all 
seem  to  favor  this  supposition.  But  when  did  the 
grand  journey  begin  ?  When  will  it  end  ?  How 
vain  to  ask  !  How  momentary  human  life  ap 
pears,  when  we  give  our  minds  to  such  contem 
plations  !  Where  was  the  cataract  toiling  in  its 
way,  when  none  but  the  awe-struck  Indian  came 
to  bow  before  its  sublimity  ?  Where  was  it,  when 
the  moss-buried  trunk,  which  now  lies  decaying 
by  its  borders,  was  a  new-sprung  sapling,  glit 
tering  with  the  spray-drops  which  fed  its  infant 
leaves  ?  Where,  was  it,  before  the  form  of  a  sin 
gle  red  man  glided  through  the  forest  ?  Where 
was  it,  when  lofty  trees  stood  by  it  in  the  intimate 
sympathy  of  centuries,  which  long  since  have  been 
resolved  into  earth  ?  Where  was  it  when  winds 
and  clouds  were  its  only  visiters  ;  and  when  the 


1  Within  a  few  years,  several  pieces  of  the  upper  stratum  have 
been  thus  thrown  down.  The  waters,  however,  are  now  obliged  to 
act  upon  a  surface  three  times  wider  than  that  which  formerly  sus 
tained  them,  and  the  limestone  is  becoming  more  and  more  compacted 
with  the  harder  chert,  as  they  approach  Black  Rock.  Their  retro 
cession  must  therefore  be  slow,  beyond  the  power  of  computation. 
Beneath  the  limestone  strata,  there  is  a  layer  of  loose  shale,  which  is 
easily  washed  away,  and  which  is  always  first  hollowed  out,  before 
the  limestone  falls. 


FALLS    OF    THE    NIAGARA.  307 

sun  and  blue  heaven  by  day,  and  the  moon  and 
stars  by  night,  alone  looked  down  and  beheld  it, 
the  same  as  they  behold  it  now  ?  And  is  not 
science  blind  and  foolish,  when  she  does  not  learn 
to  be  humble  ?  Is  she  not  miserably  blind  and 
foolish,  when,  being  in  her  elements  and  leading- 
strings,  she  lisps  impiety,  instead  of  prayer  ? 

Four  days  flew  by  us,  like  the  waters  of  the 
rapids,  while  we  staid  here,  and  then  came  our 
time  for  departure.  As  we  rode  down  to  Lake 
Ontario,  on  the  bank  of  the  river,  and  turned  every 
moment  to  catch  glimpses  of  the  Falls,  we  were 
favored,  when  between  two  and  three  miles  on 
our  way,  with  a  full  view  of  the  whole  cataract, 
through  an  opening  in  the  woods.  We  stopped 
and  alighted,  in  order  to  enjoy  the  melancholy 
pleasure  of  contemplating  it  for  the  last  time.  It 
looked  softer  and  gentler  in  the  distance,  and  its 
sound  came  to  the  ear  like  a  murmur.  I  had 
learned  to  regard  it  as  a  friend  ;  and  as  I  stood,  I 
bade  it,  in  my  heart,  farewell. 

Farewell,  beautiful,  holy  creation  of  God ! 
Flow  on,  in  the  garment  of  glory  which  he  has 
given  thee,  and  fill  other  souls,  as  thou  hast  filled 
mine,  with  wonder  and  praise.  Often  will  my  spirit 
be  with  thee,  waking,  and  in  dreams.  But  soon  I 
shall  pass  away,  and  thou  wilt  remain.  Flow  on, 
then,  for  others'  eyes,  when  mine  are  closed,  and 


308  MISCELLANIES. 

for  others'  hearts,  when  mine  is  cold.  Still  call  to 
the  deeps  of  many  generations.  Still  utter  the  in 
structions  of  the  Creator  to  wayfaring  spirits,  till 
thou  hast  fulfilled  thy  work,  and  they  have  all  re 
turned,  like  wearied  travellers,  to  their  home. 


SPIRIT   OF  REFORM. 


WHAT  is  the  spirit  of  reform  ?  What  is  it  that 
has  animated  and  enabled  men  from  time  to  time 
to  become  reformers,  not  disturbers,  but  true  re 
formers  ;  and  not  religious  reformers  alone,  but 
moral  reformers  of  all  descriptions  ?  Has  it  not 
been  a  sense  of  independence  and  personal  re- 
sponsibleness,  and  of  superiority  to  what  are  usu 
ally  termed  existing  circumstances  and  the  spirit 
of  the  age  ? 

A  very  large  proportion  of  the  evil  which  has  al 
ways  existed  in  society,  may  be  traced  to  the  want  of 
personal  independence,  and  disregard  of  personal 
responsibility.  We  do  not  mean  by  independence, 
that  fiery  essence  of  pride  and  selfishness,  which 
is  quick  to  resent  a  slight  or  wrong  ;  which  is  al 
ways  ready  to  meet  aggression  more  than  half 
way  ;  and  which  delights  to  show  itself  in  rude 
ness  or  haughtiness,  as  its  condition  may  happen 
to  be  low  or  high.  For  such  independence  we 
have  little  sympathy  and  less  respect,  and  so  far 


310  .  MISCELLANIES. 

from  thinking  that  there  is  a  want  of  it  in  the 
world,  can  only  lament  that  there  is  such  a  super 
fluity.  By  independence  we  mean  another  and 
a  far  different  thing.  We  mean  the  resolution 
which  adopts,  and  maintains,  and  obeys  its  own 
standard  of  right  and  wrong  ;  which  refuses  to 
render  an  unquestioning  homage  to  the  voice  of 
the  many  ;  which,  being  based  upon  principle,  is 
not  to  be  driven  to  and  fro  by  the  popular  breath, 
even  should  that  breath  rise  into  a  whirlwind  ; 
which,  acknowledging  allegiance  to  a  higher  than 
any  mortal  authority,  will  not  forfeit  it  at  the  be 
hest  of  any.  This  is  the  independence  which 
leaves  to  a  man  his  own  views  and  convictions, 
his  own  conscience,  and  his  own  conduct.  With 
out  inciting  or  suffering  him  to  be  forward  or  bois 
terous,  it  makes  him  steadfast  and  sure.  Without 
obliging  him  to  feel  an  uncharitable  scorn  of  pub 
lic  opinion,  it  offers  a  rule  to  his  admiration  and 
observance  which  is  alone  worthy  of  his  serious 
study,  and  entitled  to  his  faithful  submission,  — 
the  great  rule  of  right,  the  solemn  law  of  God.  It 
teaches  him  to  consider  himself  as  responsible  for 
his  thoughts  and  actions,  in  the  first  and  highest 
place,  not  to  the  multitude,  but  to  his  Maker  ;  and 
in  the  second  place,  not  to  the  multitude,  but  to 
his  own  soul.  It  leads  him  into  a  safer,  happier, 
and  more  glorious  path,  than  the  broad,  dusty, 


SPIRIT    OF    REFORM.  311 

soiled,  and  soiling  road,  which  is  beaten  by  the 
multitudinous  and  crowding  world.  It  sets  his 
feet  and  his  heart  at  liberty,  and  breathes  into  his 
soul  the  consciousness  of  individual  existence  and 
value,  and  the  sense  of  individual  duty. 

This  is  the  independence,  to  the  want  of  which 
may  be  traced  and  referred  very  much  of  past  and 
existing  evil.  Not  possessing  it,  men  lose  them 
selves,  their  accountability,  their  dignity,  all  that 
constitutes  them  men,  in  the  absorbing  mass ; 
where  they  acquire  the  color,  and  motions,  and 
tendencies  of  the  mighty  vortex  which  has  en 
gulfed  them.  Instead  of  uttering  a  voice  of  their 
own,  they  wait  for  an  acclamation,  and  then  they 
join  in  ;  instead  of  having  opinions  of  their  own, 
they  listen  for  the  prevalent  opinions,  and  then 
they  repeat  them ;  instead  of  having  a  morality  of 
their  own,  a  religion  of  their  own,  they  are  con 
tent  to  be  just  as  moral  and  just  as  immoral,  just 
as  religious  and  just  as  irreligious,  as  other  peo 
ple  ;  taking  the  tone  of  the  world  around  them, 
which  is  seldom  the  highest,  and  imbibing  its  sen 
timents,  which  are  not  always  the  purest.  They 
do  not  test  and  try  opinions  by  any  self-instituted 
process.  They  do  not  examine  manners  and  ac 
tions  according  to  a  fixed  and  exalted  standard. 
They  trouble  themselves  with  nothing  of  the  kind. 
They  fall  in  with  the  great  procession,  without 


312  MISCELLANIES. 

inquiring  whither  it  is  going,  upwards  or  down 
wards,  to  a  good  end  or  a  bad  one  ;  it  is  enough 
for  them  that  they  are  going  with  it.  And  thus  it 
comes,  that  there  are  so  many  slaves  to  custom 
and  fashion  ;  and  that  there  are  so  many  expen 
sive  and  monstrous  sacrifices  to  custom  and  fash 
ion.  Thus  it  comes,  that  those  who  ought  to  be 
economical  are  extravagant,  and  those  who  ought 
to  be  industrious  are  idle,  and  the  rich  so  often 
grow  poor,  and  the  poor  so  often  keep  themselves 
poor,  or  grow  poorer,  and  strip  themselves  to  des 
titution.  Thus  it  comes  that  so  many  think  evil  is 
metamorphosed  into  good,  when  they  see  the  mul 
titude  practise  it,  and  good  is  turned  into  evil, 
when  they  see  the  multitude  slight,  or  forsake,  or 
forbid  it.  And  thus  it  comes,  that  the  amount  of 
evil  is  so  vastly  increased,  because  there  are  so 
many  who  blindly  and  carelessly,  or  cowardly, 
without  using  their  own  eyes  to  observe,  or  their 
own  minds  to  prove,  follow  the  multitude  to  do  it. 
But  must  we  be  singular  ?  Must  we  be  eccen 
tric  ?  Must  we  do  nothing  that  others  do  ;  say 
nothing  that  others  say  ?  Must  we  be  perpetually 
quarrelling  with  society  about  its  usages  and  hab 
its  ?  No.  We  are  to  do  none  of  these  things. 
It  is  best  that  we  should  follow  the  many  in  all 
ways  which  are  indifferent ;  perhaps  it  is  best  that 
we  should  follow  them  in  some  ways  which  are 


SPIRIT    OF    REFORM.  313 

inconvenient ;  but  we  must  not  follow  them  to  do 
evil."  "  Thou  must  not  follow  a  multitude  to  do 
evil."  That  is  the  simple  commandment.  It  is 
very  true  that  singularity  and  eccentricity,  when 
they  come  from  a  causeless,  wilful,  diseased  prin 
ciple  of  opposition  to  general  custom  and  senti 
ment,  are  no  virtues  ;  but  even  then  they  partake 
no  more  of  the  nature  of  sin,  than  does  a  servile 
acquiescence  in  general  custom  and  sentiment. 
Without  doubt,  public  opinion,  on  most  points,  is 
worthy  of  respectful  attention  and  examination  ; 
but,  after  you  have  examined  it  by  the  great  and 
permanent  light  within,  after  you  have  weighed  it 
in  the  balance  of  truth  and  the  gospel,  and  found 
it  false  and  wanting,  reject  and  oppose  it,  and  if 
your  decision  is  to  be  called  singularity  and  eccen 
tricity,  let  it  be  called  so,  and,  in  the  name  of  all 
that  is  true  and  holy,  be  singular  and  eccentric. 
We  are  not  required  to  dispute  with  the  world 
step  by  step  ;  we  are  not  required  to  be  solitary 
and  to  forsake  the  world  ;  we  are  rather  called 
upon  to  do  all  the  good  we  can  in  it,  and  receive 
all  the  good  we  can  from  it.  But  we  are  required 
to  recognize  a  higher  authority  than  the  world's 
will ;  to  obey  a  more  sacred  commandment  than 
the  world's  law.  We  are  required  to  form  moral 
and  religious  principles  of  our  own,  and  to  regu 
late  our  commerce  with  the  world  by  our  princi- 
27 


314  MISCELLANIES. 

pies,  and  not  borrow  our  principles  from  cur  com 
merce  with  the  world.  If  we  will  not  do  this,  we 
shall  do  evil ;  for  we  shall  do  whatever  the  multi 
tude  does,  and  the  multitude  often  does  evil.  The 
very  reason  why  so  many  follow  a  multitude  to 
do  evil,  is,  not  that  they  take  any  particular  plea 
sure  in  evil,  but  that  they  are  in  the  weak  and 
silly  habit  of  following  a  multitude,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  without  considering  whether  it  is  for  evil 
or  good.  That  is  to  say,  they  want  moral  inde 
pendence,  and  do  not  hold  themselves  individually 
accountable  to  their  own  spirit,  or  to  the  Father 
of  spirits. 

This  want  of  independence  is  manifested  by 
some,  who  yet  would  repel  the  charge  of  follow 
ing  a  multitude.  We  care  not  for  the  multitude, 
say  they.  We  are  not  governed  by  the  popular 
voice,  or  the  popular  taste.  We  acknowledge  no 
such  vulgar  dominion.  We  go  with  the  select 
few,  and  not  with  the  many,  whom  we  avoid  and 
despise,  and  feel  no  disposition  to  follow. 

Such  persons  are  to  be  told,  that  their  distinc 
tion  is  merely  verbal.  Their  select  few,  or  the 
fashionable  world,  or  whatever  else  it  may  be 
termed,  is  to  all  intents  and  purposes  a  multitude, 
for  it  is  a  multitude  to  them,  acting  upon  them  by 
all  the  influences  of  a  combination,  and  with  all 
the  despotism  of  general  example.  So  that  we 


SPIRIT    OF    REFORM.  315 

surrender  our  conscience,  and  our  right  of  judg 
ing,  deciding,  and  acting,  it  matters  not  whether 
the  surrender  is«made  to  a  well-clad  or  an  ill-clad 
collection  of  people,  to  the  fashionable  or  unfash 
ionable  world.  These  precious  powers  and  digni 
ties  we  are  not  to  lay  at  the  feet  of  any  body  of 
men,  be  they  kings,  priests,  or  common  people. 
We  are  to  resist  improper  influences,  at  all  events 
and  from  all  directions  ;  whether  they  come  down 
from  palaces  or  up  from  hovels.  A  multitude  is 
not  necessarily  a  mob.  Any  number  or  circle  of 
people,  be  it  large  or  small,  genteel  or  ungenteel, 
to  whose  dictates  we  yield  an  Eastern  homage, 
whose  maxims  we  obediently  adopt,  and  in  whose 
ways  we  implicitly  tread,  is  our  multitude,  with 
all  the  power  and  associations  of  a  multitude  ;  and 
they  carry  their  chains  with  them,  be  they  gold  or 
be  they  iron  ;  and  if  we  are  bound,  if  we  cannot 
stir  but  in  a  certain  mode  and  to  a  certain  extent, 
of  what  consequence  is  it  what  our  fetters  are  made 
of?  We  are  not  at  liberty.  We  have  parted 
with  our  birthright  We  have  suffered  ourselves 
to  be  divested  of  the  privilege  of  self-control.  We 
follow  our  multitude,  and,  when  it  runs  to  evil,  to 
evil ;  and  evil  is  of  such  a  homogeneous  charac 
ter,  that  it  is  of  little  moment  whether  it  is  coarse 
or  refined.  No  kind  of  evil  is  genteel  in  the  eyes 
of  the  really  upright  and  good.  They  are  essen^ 


316  MISCELLANIES. 

tially  the  subjects  of  a  kingdom,  the  only  one,  we 
believe,  where  evil,  in  any  dress,  is  always  out 
of  fashion  ;  the  kingdom  of  righteousness  and 
heaven. 

Are  there  those,  who  say  that  they  are  not  in 
bondage,  or  that  their  bondage  is  a  voluntary  one  ; 
that  they  do  not  act  by  compulsion  ;  that  it  is  their 
will  and  pleasure  to  follow  a  multitude,  and  fol 
low  it  anywhere  ?  The  amount  of  this  assertion 
is,  that,  instead  of  doing  evil  with  the  rest  of  the 
world  thoughtlessly  or  unwillingly,  they  do  it  wil 
fully  and  willingly  ;  that,  instead  of  disobeying 
the  commandment  of  God  blindly  or  with  reluct 
ance,  they  disobey  it  readily  and  fearlessly.  They 
take  the  offered  fetters  gladly,  and  put  them  on 
with  their  own  hands.  They  are  proud  of  them, 
and  desirous  of  wearing  them.  They  do  not  in 
tend  to  inquire  what  is  good  or  what  is  evil.  They 
only  intend  to  do  as  others  do,  whether  what  they 
do  is  evil  or  good.  This  alacrity  and  satisfaction 
in  parting  with  their  independence,  and  denying  a 
supreme  law  of  right  and  wrong,  and  submitting 
to  an  earthly  direction,  bears  a  character  of  ex- 
plicitness  and  reckless  hardihood,  and  that  is  the 
best  that  can  be  said  of  it.  It  is  no  extenuation 
of  the  offence,  but  the  contrary.  If  they  declare 
that  it  gives  them  pleasure  to  follow  a  multitude, 
and  that  they  mean  to  follow  it,  they  only  declare 


SPIRIT    OF    REFORM.  317 

that  they  are  more  completely  and  in  spirit  servile, 
than  he  is  who  says,  that  he  cannot  help  following 
the  multitude,  that  he  dislikes  the '  bondage,  but 
cannot  throw  it  off. 

We  have  shown  that  the  great  danger  of  dis 
obeying  the  divine  law  lies  in  the  habit,  so  easily, 
and,  unless  carefully  guarded  against,  so  inevita 
bly  formed,  of  following  a  multitude  ;  of  giving 
up  our  sentiments  and  conduct  into  the  hands  of 
those  around  us,  instead  of  keeping  them  in  our 
own  ;  of  having  no  permanent  rule  of  action,  above 
the  authority  of  a  multitude,  and  beyond  their 
power  ;  of  permitting  ourselves  to  be  dependent 
on  a  multitude,  and  to  forget  all  other  and  higher 
accountability.  Our  main  duty,  therefore,  is,  as 
it  will  be  our  great  safeguard  and  defence,  to  have 
a  fixed  standard,  to  acknowledge  a  supreme  rule, 
and  to  refer  to  this  standard,  and  observe  this  rule, 
firmly  and  regularly,  let  the  multitude  go  as  they 
will. 

It  has  all  along  been  intimated  where  the  great 
and  sacred  law  is  to  be  found.  God  has  written 
it  on  our  hearts,  and  he  has  revealed  it  in  the 
Scriptures.  We  have  a  sense  of  right  and  wrong ; 
and  we  should  heed  fully  attend  to  its  unper  verted 
monitions.  We  are  gifted  with  reason,  that  di 
vine  light  within  ;  and  we  should  use  it  in  deter 
mining  what  is  profitable  and  what  is  unprofita- 
27* 


318  MISCELLANIES. 

ble  ;  what  is  hurtful  to  our  nature  and  what  is 
helpful  to  it ;  what  is  a  useful  and  dignified  em 
ployment  of  our  time  and  faculties,  and  what  is 
a  waste  and  abuse  of  them  ;  what  will  contribute 
to  exalt,  and  what  to  degrade  us. 

From  the  same  Eternal  Source  and  Supreme 
Authority  we  have  a  light  and  a  law  in  the  Bible. 
The  word  is  written  there  against  all  sin  and  all 
manner  of  defilement.  Unequivocal  precepts  of 
righteousness  are  laid  down  there,  which  it  is  im 
possible  to  misconstrue,  and  concerning  which 
there  can  be  no  controversy. 

And  then  there  is  the  example  of  the  Saviour, 
who  practised  the  purity,  integrity  and  holiness 
which  he  came  to  teach  ;  and  whose  life  can  be 
no  more  misapprehended  than  his  moral  doctrine 
can  be  ;  a  life  of  piety,  a  life  of  truth,  a  life  of  sin 
gular,  independent  excellence,  a  model  of  living 
for  all  the  sons  of  God. 

Behold,  then,  the  law,  the  testimony,  and  the 
life  which  are  to  be  our  standard  and  rule,  as  men 
and  as  Christians.  Let  these  be  erected  above  the 
world's  highway,  —  far  above  it.  Let  these  be 
obeyed  and  followed  before  the  world's  command 
ment  and  example, —  far  and  long  before  them. 
Then  shall  we  not  follow  a  multitude  to  do  evil, 
because  we  shall  follow,  first  of  all,  and  rather 
than  all,  those  divine  dictates,  and  that  divine  ex- 


SPIRIT    OF    REFORM.  319 

ample,  which  are  clothed  with  the  highest  author 
ity,  which  beam  with  the  clearest  light,  which  call 
us  to  our  own  true  happiness,  and  can  only  lead 
us  to  do  good. 

The  above  remarks  have  been  made,  and  prin 
ciples  laid  down,  preparatory  to  the  consideration 
of  the  correctness  of  some  ideas  which  are  com 
monly  entertained  with  regard  to  the  nature  and 
power  of  circumstances. 

When  we  are  reviewing  the  history  of  a  gener 
ation,  the  character  and  conduct  of  ancestors,  or 
the  biography  or  writings  of  individuals,  it  is  the 
constant  habit  to  account  for,  and  at  the  same 
time  to  extenuate,  and  almost  to  justify,  some  of 
the  worst  of  their  faults  and  sins,  by  imputing 
them  to  the  circumstances  of  the  age  in  which  they 
lived.  Let  there  be  gross  inconsistencies,  glaring 
errors,  burning  shames  in  the  scene,  the  broad 
veil  of  circumstances  is  only  to  be  dropped  before 
them,  and  it  covers,  conceals,  or,  at  least,  shades 
them  all. 

Now,  it  is  not  to  be  denied  that  the  circum 
stances  of  the  times  and  manners  of  the  age  are  in 
a  certain  degree  palliative  of  vices,  irregularities, 
and  excesses  which  grow  out  of  them,  or  go  to 
constitute  them.  That  is  to  say,  the  mighty  force 
and  sway  of  general  example,  for  evil  as  well  as 
for  good,  are  to  be  duly  allowed  in  estimating  the 


320  MISCELLANIES. 

movements  of  society.  The  proneness  of  individ 
uals  to  follow  a  multitude,  and  of  the  constituent 
members  of  a  multitude  to  follow  each  other  to  do 
evil,  is  a  fact  in  our  moral  nature  which  is  not  to 
be  overlooked,  and  which,  in  some  cases,  and 
with  respect  to  the  very  ignorant  and  benighted, 
amounts  to  nearly  a  full  palliation  of  offences. 
But  it  is  not  to  be  allowed,  that  circumstances  are 
the  complete  justification  of  offences  in  all  cases, 
which  they  are  often  asserted  to  be.  It  is  not  to 
be  allowed  that  a  bad  example,  however  general, 
cannot  be  resisted  ;  that  a  man,  by  exercising  his 
reason,  speaking  to  his  courage,  and  putting  forth 
his  strength,  cannot  break  away  from  the  enthrall 
ing  influence  of  the  many.  We  therefore  think 
that  the  usual  estimate  of  what  are  called  circum 
stances,  as  excuses  of  corrupt  morals  and  fatal 
principles,  is  superficial,  delusive,  and  of  injurious 
tendency. 

What  are  circumstances  ?  With  many,  they 
seem  to  mean  a  sort  of  fate  ;  an  undefinable,  in 
comprehensible,  and  irresistible  combination  of 
agencies,  which  take  into  their  hands  the  moral 
government  of  the  world  ;  an  overhanging  cloud, 
under  the  oppressive  shadow  of  which  all  men 
must  grope  ;  an  external  power,  with  the  myste 
rious  action  of  which  men  have  no  concern  but 
that  of  obedience.  This  vague  notion  of  circum- 


SPIRIT    OF    REFORM.  321 

stances,  is,  as  we  conceive,  at  war  with  the  impor 
tant  truth  of  each  man's  responsibility,  and  with 
some  other  truths  and  facts,  as  may  be  briefly  and 
easily  shown. 

Circumstances,  then,  we  say,  are  not  external 
and  overwhelming  powers,  but  the  effects  of  the 
free  actions  and  opinions  of  men  themselves,  both 
as  individuals  and  as  the  constituent  parts  of  soci 
ety  ;  and  the  influence  of  circumstances  is,  for  the 
most  part,  nothing  more  than  the  influence  of  pre 
valent  example  ;  which  we  have  already  allowed 
to  be  great,  but  not  almighty  and  resistless. 

From  this  definition  we  of  course  except  phy 
sical  circumstances,  such  as  a  cold  or  a  warm  cli 
mate,  a  maritime  or  an  inland  situation  ;  but  the 
other  class,  which  we  may  term  moral  circum 
stances,  and  which  are  not  constant,  but  continu 
ally  varying  in  the  same  climate  and  country,  are 
nothing  more  than  what  we  have  already  stated 
them  to  be,  the  effects  of  the  free  actions  and  opin 
ions  of  men  themselves,  for  which  men  themselves 
are  to  be  held  accountable.  What  are  called  un- 
propitious  circumstances,  are  the  manifestations 
and  influences  of  something  bad  in  the  character 
of  a  people,  which,  by  a  reference  to  a  pure  and 
existing  standard,  might  have  been  better.  To 
yield  to  such  circumstances,  to  be  governed  by 
them,  is  to  follow  the  multitude  to  do  evil ;  which 


322  MISCELLANIES. 

is  to  evince  a  common  and  yet  culpable  want  of 
independence  and  resolution.  A  law  and  a  stand 
ard  have  always  been  set  up  before  the  Daces  of 
men,  by  observing  which  they  might  have  kept  in 
a  more  excellent  way  than  that  which  the  world 
has  usually  or  ever  pursued.  That  they  might 
have  kept  in  it,  is  proved  by  the  fact  that  some 
always  have  kept  in  it.  In  all  ages,  we  are  made 
acquainted  with  individuals,  who,  like  Noah,  and 
Lot,  and  Joshua,  have  resolved,  with  their  houses, 
to  serve  the  Lord,  let  others  serve  whom  they 
would.  In  all  nations,  there  have  been  those  who 
have  worked  righteousness  and  been  accepted  ; 
who  have  listened  to  the  still  monitions  of  their 
bosoms,  in  preference  to  the  noise  of  the  multi 
tude  ;  and  have  walked  by  the  light  of  heaven, 
whether  it  shone  from  within  or  beamed  from  the 
written  word,  rather  than  by  the  delusive  and  per 
ishing  fires  which  were  kindled  by  the  passions 
and  perversities  of  the  crowd.  Have  such  per 
sons  any  merit  ?  If  they  have,  have  not  the  mul 
titude,  and  those  who  follow  the  multitude,  any 
sin  ?  If  those  who  stand  aloof  from  surrounding 
corruption  are  to  be  praised,  are  not  those  who 
permit  themselves  to  be  swallowed  up  in  it  to  be 
blamed  ?  We  had  always  thought  that  it  was  the 
prerogative,  the  dignity,  and  the  duty  of  men  to 
resist  circumstances,  even  physical  circumstances. 


SPIRIT    OF    REFORM.  323 

certainly  the  circumstances  manufactured  for  them 
by  men  like  themselves,  the  vicious  fashions,  hab 
its,  and  systems  set  up  for  their  worship  by  the 
idolatrous  world.  And  we  had  consequently 
thought  that  the  human  prerogative  was  yielded, 
and  the  dignity  lost,  and  the  duty  neglected,  when 
the  soul  submitted  and  the  knee  was  bent. 

Is  it  said  that  the  general  sin  is  a  necessary  re 
sult  of  the  general  ignorance,  and  that  when  men 
have  no  light,  it  is  no  wonder  that  they  stray  ? 
The  answer  is,  that  there  has  always  been  a  light 
above  the  darkness,  and  if  the  darkness  has  been 
preferred,  it  has  been  more  or  less  the  fault  of  those 
who  have  preferred  it ;  and  whenever  the  light  has 
been  preferred,  it  has  been  more  or  less  the  glory 
of  those  who  have  preferred  it.  And  surely,  since 
the  rising  of  the  Sun  of  righteousness,  there  has 
been  light  enough.  Since  the  promulgation  of  the 
Christian  code,  there  has  been  a  sufficient  law,  and 
a  satisfactory  standard.  And  the  fact  is,  that  those 
who  have  enjoyed  the  most  light,  have  often  wan 
dered  the  widest,  and  have  made  circumstances 
worse  than  they  found  them.  Must  these  be  de 
fended,  too,  on  the  score  of  circumstances  and  the 
manners  of  the  age  ?  Must  they  who  pervert 
their  superior  powers  to  administer  to  the  popular 
wickedness,  and  so  make  it  greater,  must  they, 
too,  be  sheltered  under  the  convenient  mantle  of 


324  MISCELLANIES. 

the  spirit  of  the  times  ?  We  repeat  it,  they  make 
circumstances,  and  in  different  degrees  and  ways 
we  all  make  circumstances  ;  for  it  appears  as  plain 
to  us  as  anything  which  we  behold,  that  circum 
stances  do  not  come  up  from  the  ground  or  fall 
down  from  the  sky,  but  are  made,  actually  made, 
by  the  ever-operating  wills  of  men.  If  a  genera 
tion  or  class  of  men  are  remarkable  for  laxity  of 
manners,  sensuality  and  grossness,  it  is  not  because 
they  do  not  know  that  there  is  a  divine  blessing 
pronounced  upon  the  pure  in  heart,  and  a  woe 
against  the  unclean,  but  because,  knowing,  they 
choose  to  slight  both  blessing  and  ban,  and  indulge 
appetite  in  defiance  of  law.  Again,  if  they  are 
quarrelsome,  revengeful,  and  warlike,  it  is  not  be 
cause  they  are  not  commanded,  and  do  not  know 
that  they  are  commanded,  to  love  one  another,  but 
because  they  determine  to  give  loose  to  their  fiery 
passions,  and  send  them  forth  to  burn,  waste,  and 
destroy  ;  and  because  one  man  follows  his  neigh 
bor,  and  follows  the  multitude  to  do  evil,  without 
giving  the  heed  which  he  ought  and  very  well 
might  to  his  own  steps,  that  they  should  be  found 
in  the  way  of  righteousness.  Thus  are  circum 
stances  created  ;  and  as  they  are  created,  so  can 
they  be  resisted  and  destroyed,  —  even  by  the 
wills  and  energies  of  men.  The  command  always 
exists,  Thou  shalt  not  follow  a  multitude  to  do 


SPIRIT    OF    REFORM.  325 

evil ;  and  it  can  always  be  obeyed  ;  for  it  cannot 
be  considered  as  issued  to  those  who  are  absolutely 
unable  to  obey  it. 

An  illustration  or  two  may  help  us  in  the  con 
sideration  of  this  subject.  Open  the  works  of  one 
of  the  English  dramatic  writers  of  the  sixteenth  or 
seventeenth  century.  They  are  full  of  scenes  and 
passages  which  you  acknowledge  are  not  fit  to  be 
read  by  man,  woman,  or  child.  But  you  say,  the 
author  was  a  fine  genius,  and  while  his  writings  are 
certainly  not  to  be  recommended  in  all  respects, 
he  himself  ought  not  to  be  charged  with  the  faults 
of  his  age  ?  Why  is  he  not  to  be  charged  with 
the  faults  of  his  age  ?  And  why  is  not  the  age  to 
be  charged  with  its  own  faults  ?  They  had  a  law  ; 
the  same  law  which  we  have,  uttering  the  same 
language  which  it  does  now,  clothed  with  the 
same  sanctions.  And  yet,  knowing  this  law,  and 
knowing  that  it  called  on  them  to  put  away  the 
works  of  darkness,  and  distinctly  specified  what 
those  works  of  darkness  were,  the  crowd,  both  the 
well-dressed  and  the  ill-dressed  crowd,  could  de 
mand  such  plays  as  were  then  written,  and  the 
fine  geniuses  could  write  them  ;  and  people,  who 
had  Bibles  in  their  houses,  or  at  least  heard  them 
read  in  the  churches,  could  go  to  the  theatre,  and 
listen  to  the  grossest  stuff  which  was  ever  penned 
28 


326  MISCELLANIES. 

or  spoken,  without  a  murmur  or  a  blush.  Are 
those  playwrights  to  be  excused  for  their  indecency 
and  profaneness,  because  the  spirit  of  the  age  ex 
cused  and  even  required  such  things  ?  We  can 
not  see  why  either  they  or  the  age  are  to  be  ex 
cused  ;  why  the  age  is  to  be  considered  innocent 
in  having  such  a  spirit,  or  the  playwrights  are  to 
be  absolved  for  affording  it  its  congenial  nutriment. 
The  divine  law  did  not  excuse  them,  and  they 
knew  it  did  not.  And  here  is  the  great  point  in 
this  ease.  They  sinned,  both  the  multitude  and 
those  who  followed  them,  against  a  known  com 
mandment.  A  light  was  shining,  and  they  did 
not  heed  it.  A  standard  was  erected,  and  they 
did  not  recur  to  it.  No  circumstances  can  furnish 
a  full  excuse  for  such  sinning  as  this,  especially 
when  the  sin  and  the  circumstances  are  one  and 
the  same  ;  the  sin  being  the  circumstance.  To 
defend  such  writings  as  we  are  speaking  of,  there 
fore,  by  a  slight  recurrence  to  the  spirit  of  the  age, 
is  a  loose  and  dangerous  way  of  treating  moral 
subjects  of  this  moment.  That  age  was  a  Christ 
ian  age,  a  polite  and  advanced  age,  and  its  spirit 
ought  to  have  been  better.  All  sin,  indeed,  which 
is  indulged  in  by  numbers,  may  admit  of  the  same 
excuse.  You  may  call  it  the  spirit  of  the  age,  if 
you  please,  but  unless  you  can  show  that  there 
was  no  corrective  principle  existing,  no  loudly  ut- 


SPIRIT    OF    REFORM.  327 

tered  law  against  it,  you  cannot  maintain  that  the 
spirit  is  necessary  and  blameless,  for  you  cannot 
prove  that  a  sin  is  no  sin  when  many  partake  in  it, 
and  follow  one  another  to  commit  it. 

Then  it  is  further  to  be  considered,  that  in  those 
very  times  to  which  our  attention  has  been  di 
rected,  there  were  those  who  had  the  indepen 
dence  and  the  true  wisdom  to  bring  the  existing 
state  of  morals  and  habits  into  comparison  with  a 
standard  which  they  revered,  and  which  was  wor 
thy  of  their  reverence,  and  to  see  the  fearful  oppo 
sition  in  which  the  former  stood  to  the  latter. 
And  they  courageously  refused  to  be  governed  by 
the  circumstances  to  which  others  submitted,  that 
is  to  say,  to  be  enslaved  by  the  reigning  vices ; 
and  they  resisted  the  spirit  of  their  age,  and  by  re 
sisting  reformed  it.  In  other  words,  they  made 
new  circumstances,  or  greatly  modified  the  old 
ones.  We  allude  not  only  to  the  noble  army  of 
Puritans,  whose  utter  abhorrence  of  the  spirit  of 
the  age,  led  them  into  such  harsh  but  very  natural 
extremes,  but  to  many  others,  who,  though  they 
did  not  nominally  join  the  Puritans,  kept  them 
selves  pure  amidst  impurity,  and  thus  contributed 
to  bring  about  a  chaster  style,  a  more  moral  taste, 
and  a  more  serious  and  practical  religion.  Are 
these  men  worthy  of  praise  ?  You  will  readily 
allow  that  they  are.  Why,  then,  must  you  not 


328  MISCELLANIES. 

also  allow,  that  those  others  from  whom  they  se 
parated  themselves,  writers  and  readers,  corrupt- 
ers  and  corrupted,  the  makers  of  fashion  and  the 
slaves  of  fashion,  are  deserving  of  blame  ?  And 
allowing  this,  will  you  not  grant,  that  as  moral  cir 
cumstances  may  be  thus  formed  and  changed  by 
men,  yielded  to  or  opposed  by  men,  they  are  in 
the  power  of  men,  being  the  opinions  and  customs 
of  men  themselves,  and  therefore  not  irresistible 
fates  compelling  men  to  certain  courses,  and  de 
priving  them  of  their  accountableness  ? 

Perhaps  there  is  no  sin  which  has  called  more 
frequently  for  this  excuse  of  circumstances,  and 
plead  more  successfully  in  its  defence  the  spirit  of 
the  age,  than  the  sin  of  religious  intolerance. 
Catholics  and  Protestants,  Churchmen  and  Puri 
tans,  must  all  be  acquitted  of  the  guilt  of  fiery  pas 
sions  and  horrible  persecution,  because  persecution 
was  the  fashion  of  their  times,  and  religious  toler 
ation  and  liberty  of  opinion  had  not  yet  been  in 
vented.  Strange,  indeed,  that  sixteen  hundred 
years  after  the  law  of  charity  and  love  had  been 
proclaimed  to  the  world,  men  had  not  come  to  the 
understanding  and  obedience  of  it.  But  some  did 
understand  and  obey  it.  Are  they  to  be  put  on 
the  same  level  in  the  moral  scale  with  those  who 
did  not  ?  Is  Archbishop  Laud  to  take  rank  among 
the  peacemakers  and  sons  of  Christian  liberty, 


SPIRIT    OF    REFORM.  329 

with  Roger  Williams,  William  Perm,  and  Lord 
Baltimore  ?  Are  circumstances  and  the  spirit  of 
the  age  really  to  be  permitted  to  have  this  equal 
izing  power  ?  Are  the  passionate  and  the  peace 
ful,  the  forgiving  and  the  revengeful,  to  be  thus 
jumbled  together,  because  a  great  majority  of 
their  contemporaries  were  passionate  and  not 
peaceful,  revengeful  and  not  forgiving  ?  If  it  is 
said  that  the  asserters  of  full  liberty  of  conscience 
were  really  no  better  men  than  the  advocates  of 
persecution,  but  were  taught  their  principles  by 
the  imposed  lessons  of  dire  experience,  we  shall 
not  take  the  trouble  of  disputing  the  assertion, 
though  we  do  not  believe  it ;  but  even  then,  grant 
ing  it  to  be  strictly  true,  we  say  that  it  was  some 
credit  to  the  former  that  they  were  docile,  that 
they  could  be  taught  at  all,  taught  by  anything, 
while  they  were  surrounded  by  the  latter,  who, 
subject  to  the  same  dire  experience,  suffering  un 
der  the  same  discipline,  could  be  taught  by  no 
thing.  It  is  much,  we  repeat,  in  a  man's  favor, 
that  he  can  be  taught. 

If  this  is  a  just  exposition  of  the  nature  and 
power  of  moral  circumstances,  it  follows  that  it  is 
one  of  our  first  and  gravest  duties,  to  do  whatever 
we  can  to  resist  and  overcome  bad  circumstances, 
and  to  create  good  ones.  This  double- fronted 
duty,  as  it  may  be  called,  looks  behind  and  before, 
28* 


330  MISCELLANIES, 

to  the  past  and  to  the  future.  It  enjoins  upon  us 
a  steady  warfare  with  the  false  notions,  injurious 
customs,  and  all  the  unpropitious  circumstances 
which  may  have  come  down  to  us,  and  among 
which  we  find  ourselves  ;  and  it  requires  us  to 
prepare  favorable  circumstances,  by  the  perform- 
ance  of  good  works,  and  the  exhibition  of  a  good 
example,  for  those  who  are  to  come  after  us.  It 
may  be  a  hard  thing,  and  doubtless  is  for  most  of 
us,  to  contend  resolutely  and  perseveringly  with 
prevalent  and  allowed  immoralities.  We  have 
not  said  that  it  is  easy  to  resist  perverse  circum 
stances,  but  that  it  is  practicable  and  is  our  duty. 
A  man  with  a  heavy  burden  on  his  shoulders,  can 
not  be  expected  to  rise  with  as  much  facility  as  if 
he  were  not  thus  laden,  and  therefore  his  burden 
is  some  excuse  for  him,  if  he  sits  still,  or  sinks 
prostrate  ;  nevertheless,  if  by  vigorous  exertion  he 
is  able  to  rise,  his  burden  does  not  justify  him  for 
neglecting  or  refusing  to  exert  himself  and  rise  up 
on  his  feet. 

If  we  are  aware  that  resistance  to  the  opposing 
current  of  circumstances  is  hard,  and  that  yielding 
to  it  is  perilous  and  sinful,  so  much  the  more  ear 
nestly  should  we  brace  ourselves  up  to  the  en 
counter,  both  for  duty's  sake  and  the  sake  of  those 
who  are  to  take  their  turn  of  duty  when  we  are 
called  to  our  account.  Let  us  do  all  we  can  for 


SPIRIT    OF    REFORM.  33 1. 

them  to  diminish  their  danger  and  their  toil,  and 
still  they  will  have  enough  left  to  do  themselves, 
and  will  see  no  time  lying  idle  on  their  hands,  if 
they  would  carry  forward  the  great  work  of  hu 
man  improvement,  and  leave  the  world  better  than 
they  found  it. 

We  have  already  spoken  of  the  duty  of  regard 
ing  and  obeying  a  law  of  right  in  preference  to 
the  example  of  the  multitude.  We  have  also 
spoken  of  the  duty  of  resisting  those  circumstances 
which  may  be  resolved  into  the  evil  influence  of 
general  example,  and  also  of  the  corresponding 
duty  of  forming  good  circumstances  as  far  as  lies 
within  the  compass  of  each  man's  ability.  We 
will  conclude  the  subject,  by  stating  the  kind  of 
exertion  which  seems  to  be  requisite  in  the  perform 
ance  of  these  duties.  How  are  we  to  treat  the 
circumstances  by  which  we  are  surrounded  ?  How 
are  we  to  oppose  those  which  are  of  a  bad  ten 
dency,  and  how  are  we  to  create  new  and  good 
ones  ?  Such  are  the  questions  which  we  propose 
to  answer. 

First  of  all,  a  reflecting  and  investigating  habit 
is  important.  Having  a  law  and  a  standard,  we 
must  keep  them  steadily  in  view,  and  bring  other 
authorities  and  influences  to  the  test  of  comparison 
with  them.  With  the  very  best  dispositions,  we 
may  frequently  follow  the  multitude  to  do  evil,  if 


332  MISCELLANIES. 

we  are  not  wakeful  and  watchful,  and  do  not  pon 
der  well  our  ways.  We  must  examine  circum 
stances,  and  not  be  satisfied  that  they  are  innocent 
because  they  are  familiar,  or  because  they  are  in 
troduced  to  us  by  friends.  We  must  not  take  for 
granted  that  opinions  are  true  or  customs  correct 
and  harmless,  because  they  are  held  and  practised 
by  many  whom  we  have  much  cause  to  respect 
and  love.  Respect  and  love  are  supremely  due 
to  G  od  and  his  word ;  and  our  great  care  and  con 
stant  care  should  be  to  try  all  propositions  by  the 
highest  and  not  an  inferior  rule.  If  such  and  such 
persons,  whom  we  esteem,  do  such  and  such 
things,  it  is  exceedingly  pleasant,  to  be  sure,  to 
bear  them  company,  —  much  more  pleasant  than 
to  stand  apart  or  go  on  alone,  provided  those 
things  are  good  —  but  that  is  a  point  which  we  are 
bound  previously  to  settle  by  a  holier  authority 
than  their  example  ;  for  though  estimable,  they  are 
not  infallible.  We  never  ought  to  lull  our  suspi 
cions  of  the  rectitude  of  a  course  by  repeating  the 
names  of  those  who  pursue  it.  It  is  a  bad  prece 
dent,  though  a  royal  one,  to  have  any  keepers  of 
our  consciences,  which  we  ought  to  keep  and 
guard  ourselves.  There  is  exceeding  danger  in 
indulging  a  careless,  indifferent,  pains-hating  tem 
per,  which  acquiesces  in  all  usual  and  established 
injunctions,  and  avoids  the  trouble  of  moral  inves* 


SPIRIT    OF    REFORM.  333 

tigation  and  personal  decision.  It  is  a  proof  of 
weakness,  and  of  a  poor  understanding  of  our 
duty,  to  say,  I  form  this  engagement,  I  partake  of 
this  amusement,  I  adopt  this  fashion,  because  my 
friends  and  acquaintance  do  the  same.  The  pro 
per  interrogatives  to  be  put  to  ourselves,  are,  Is 
this  engagement  consistent  with  my  known  and 
positive  duties  ?  Can  I  enter  into  it  with  safety, 
and  come  out  of  it  unembarrassed,  and  without  a 
breath  on  that  mirror  which  reflects  to  me  the  im 
age  of  my  inner  self  ?  Does  this  amusement  in 
terfere  with  none  of  the  more  serious  allotments  of 
my  time  ?  Does  it  help  or  hurt  me  in  the  process 
of  self-cultivation  ?  Is  it  a  relaxation  or  a  tempta 
tion  ?  Does  it  relieve  or  dissipate  my  mind  ?  Is 
it  perfectly  innocent  ?  And  if  innocent  now,  wTill 
it  be  so  by-and-by  ;  or  if  innocent  to  my  neigh 
bor,  is  it  so  to  me  ?  And  how  is  it  with  regard  to 
this  fashion  ?  Is  it  only  one  of  the  varieties  of 
taste,  or  is  it  in  itself  preposterous  ?  Can  I  afford 
to  adopt  it  ?  Will  a  compliance  with  one  of  the 
caprices  of  the  day  be  of  no  injurious  consequence 
to  my  health,  my  real  comfort,  or  my  fortune  ? 
And,  finally,  will  a  participation  in  any  engage 
ment,  amusement,  or  fashion,  which  is  presented  to 
me  by  the  consent  of  those  about  me,  make  me  less 
respectable  in  my  own  eyes,  and  less  worthy  in  the 
sight  of  the  omniscient  and  omnipresent  Judge  ? 


334  MISCELLANIES* 

Considerations  of  this  sort  we  should  bring  before 
us  very  often  in  our  intercourse  with  the  world  ; 
for  if  we  do  not,  we  shall  be  very  apt  to  slide  into 
that  easy,  careless  habit  above  mentioned,  and  be 
ready  to  receive  whatever  comes  with  the  broad 
seal  of  society  affixed  to  it,  and  join  in  with  a  mul 
titude,  whichever  way  they  are  flocking, 

That  the  want  of  that  reflection  and  discrimina 
tion,  the  importance  of  which  we  have  been  urg 
ing,  is  quite  a  common  want,  may  be  perceived 
in  the  conversation  of  numbers,  who,  from  the 
way  in  which  they  talk,  evidently  entertain  the 
conviction,  that  there  really  is  no  authority  above 
and  beyond  the  general  voice  and  example,  and 
no  such  duty  as  that  of  examining,  for  themselves, 
the  validity  of  the  world's  law  and  the  propriety 
of  an  established  usage,  before  they  consent  to 
them,  and  obey  them.  It  never  seems  to  have 
entered  their  heads  that  a  custom  of  fair  repute  is 
a  thing  to  be  questioned  or  sifted,  or  compared 
with  anything  else  ;  and  by  the  unsuspecting,  de» 
finitive  manner  in  which  they  say  "It  is  the  fash 
ion,"  you  see  that  their  meaning  is  the  same  as  if 
they  had  said,  "  It  is  right,  and  of  complete  and 
final  obligation."  Hence  it  is  that  old  practices 
are  suffered  to  continue,  till  some  who  are  wiser 
than  others  take  up  the  task  of  examining  them, 
and  then  it  is  found,  perhaps,  and  acknowledged, 


SPIRIT   OP   REFORM.  335 

that  these  practices  had  been  preying  on  the  vitals 
and  drinking  up  the  life-blood  of  the  community. 
Was  not  this  the  case  with  many  of  the  details, 
for  instance,  connected  with  the  prevalent  vice 
of  intemperance  ?  Twenty  years  ago,  nobody 
thought  of  inquiring  into  and  arraigning  the  cus 
tom  of  displaying  and  using  a  variety  of  spirituous 
liquors  at  all  times,  in  all  forms,  and  on  all  occa 
sions,  before  dinner,  and  with  dinner,  and  after 
dinner,  and  in  the  evening,  and  just  before  bed 
time,  and  for  all  meetings  of  men,  even  those  which 
solemnized  the  obsequies  of  the  dead.  Though 
the  mournful  victims  of  excess  were  everywhere 
about  us,  no  one  thought  of  tracing  the  ruin,  in 
part,  at  least,  to  the  simple  fact,  that  the  means  of 
excess  were  everywhere  about  us,  too,  —  thrust 
into  our  way,  and  by  ourselves  thrust  into  the 
way  of  others,  as  an  indispensable  mark  of  hospi 
tality  and  kindness,  wherever  we  could  turn.  This 
was  the  universal  custom,  and  therefore,  as  in  our 
sleepy,  dreaming  state  we  concluded,  it  was  all 
right.  But  presently  some  of  us  woke  up,  and 
woke  others  up,  and  we  began  to  see  that  it  was 
all  wrong,  and  that  it  was  a  mistake  to  have  sup 
posed  that  the  general  practice  could  have  ever 
made  it  right.  Thus  it  has  been  with  all  past  re 
formations,  and  thus  it  will  probably  be,  in  time, 
with  some  present  practices,  which  we  think  we 


336  MISCELLANIES. 

must  follow,  or  at  any  rate  allow  to  exist,  because 
they  have  never  been  probed  and  investigated. 
Hereafter  they  will  be  tested,  and  their  vanity  or 
iniquity  be  fully  revealed,  and  they  will  be  dis 
countenanced  and  repudiated.  Then  it  will  be 
found  that  the  circumstances  of  society  have  been 
changed,  —  and  how  changed  ?  Changed,  we 
answer,  by  the  reflections  of  the  thoughtful,  the 
examinations  of  the  discerning,  the  comparisons 
instituted  by  the  wise  and  good  between  the  ways 
of  the  world  and  the  laws  of  reason  and  of  God. 
Some  men  have  changed  the  habits  and  practices 
of  other  men,  and  there  is  a  better  general  exam 
ple  than  there  was  before,  and  this  is  a  change  of 
circumstances.  Thinking  men,  and  virtuous  and 
religious  men,  owning  a  supreme  law,  have  taken 
circumstances  into  their  own  hands,  and  have 
changed  them.  If  they  had  been  left  entirely  in 
the  hands  of  the  unreflecting  and  the  vicious,  of 
those  whose  only  law  was  the  law  of  passion  or  of 
custom,  they  would  never  have  been  changed, 
except  from  bad  to  worse,  and  from  one  folly  to 
another. 

The  first  step  in  the  treatment  of  circumstances, 
then,  is  the  cultivation  of  a  habit  of  thinking,  ex 
amining,  and  comparing  for  ourselves.  With  this 
habit  to  befriend  us,  we  shall  be  little  likely  to  fol 
low  the  multitude  to  do  evil  blindly,  because  it 


SPIRIT    OF    REFORM.  337 

will  be  a  usual  inquiry  with  us,  whither  they  are 
going,  what  is  the  direction  of  their  path,  and 
where  will  be  its  end. 

In  the  second  place,  having  measured  the  gen 
eral  example  or  custom  by  the  eternal  standard, 
and  found  it  deficient ;  having  examined  circum 
stances  by  the  true  and  steady  light,  and  deter 
mined  that  they  are  corrupt  and  baneful,  it  be 
comes  our  duty  to  act  up  to  our  convictions  with 
courage  and  perseverance. 

It  is  no  easy  thing  to  withstand  the  general  rush 
of  long  perverted  opinion  ;  no  easy  thing  to  face 
out  reiterated  discharges  from  the  battery  of  ridi 
cule  ;  no  easy  thing  to  be  content  to  be  called  sin 
gular,  and  visionary,  and  romantic,  and  millennial ; 
no  easy  thing  to  dare  the  hazard  of  being  dragged 
into  the  newspapers.  But  all  this  must  be  done 
and  dared,  if  we  are  going  to  do  our  duty  as  good 
members  of  society  and  opposers  of  vicious  prac 
tices  and  customs.  Then  we  must  sometimes  be 
ready  to  appear  to  be  interfering  with  the  rights 
and  domains  of  others,  —  observe  that  We  say,  ap 
pear  to  be  interfering,  for  really  to  interfere  with 
them,  is  a  sin  great  enough  to  vitiate  the  merit  of 
our  best  intentions.  But  the  hosts  of  wickedness, 
the  tempters  of  youth,  the  doorkeepers  of  the  house 
of  death,  wThen  they  see  their  base  interests  in  dan 
ger,  are  always  ready  to  talk  of  their  rights,  and 
29 


338  MISCELLANIES. 

place  themselves  in  the  predicament  of  injured  and 
persecuted  citizens.  And  what  are  their  rights  ? 
the  rights,  we  mean,  about  which  they  make  all 
this  pretension  ?  They  are,  almost  universally, 
rights  to  do  wrong,  which,  to  say  the  best  of  them, 
are  very  imperfect  rights.  And  why  may  not  an 
honest  man,  who  feels  that  his  happiness  is  going 
to  wreck  all  about  him,  through  the  exercise  of 
such  rights,  say  to  those  people,  "  Sirs,  I  do  not 
recognize  your  rights.  You  have  no  right  to  en 
tice  away,  by  the  preparation  of  the  most  danger 
ous  blandishments,  from  duty,  from  happiness, 
from  home,  and  from  me,  those  who  are  dearer  to 
me  than  life.  You  have  no  right  to  sell  poison 
and  death  to  my  children,  even  for  the  support  of 
your  own.  And  if  I  can  find  a  way,  a  legal  way, 
of  breaking  down  the  intrenchments  which  you 
call  your  rights,  my  wrongs  call  on  me  to  take  it, 
and  I  shall  take  it.  Be  virtuous,  sirs,  be  honora 
ble,  be  innocent,  and  then  your  rights  will  be  per 
fect  ones,  and  no  one  will  be  disposed  to  molest 
them,  no  one  can  take  them  away."  If  true 
Christian  courage  will  prompt  some  to  go  forward, 
and  say  such  things,  the  same  courage  should 
prompt  others  to  support  them  and  countenance 
them.  And  it  must  either  be  an  unworthy  tem 
porizing,  or  a  strange  mode  of  reasoning,  which 
could  allow  us  to  hold  back,  and  leave  the  bold 


SPIRIT    OF    REFORM.  339 

few  alone.  For  our  own  poor  part,  we  hope  we 
shall  always  have  the  heart  and  mind  to  say  in 
behalf  of  those  who  now,  or  at  any  time,  are  boldly 
and  lawfully  advancing  any  real,  generous  reform, 
here  or  elsewhere,  we  hope  we  shall  always  have 
the  heart  and  mind  to  say,  in  public  and  private, 
in  the  pulpit  and  in  the  closet,  for  our  own  sake 
and  for  our  children's  sake,  "  God  speed  them, 
and  God  bless  them  !  " 

But  we  must  be  prudent,  considerate,  rational, 
and  careful,  surely,  as  well  as  courageous.  If  we 
are  not,  indeed,  our  courage  will  probably  be  of 
small  avail.  We  have  already  said,  that  abuses, 
customs,  fashions,  and  prevalent  notions  must  be 
examined ;  and  we  can  hardly  do  this  without  ac 
quiring  thoughtfulness,  and  a  habit  of  looking  at 
things  on  all  sides.  A  restless,  meddlesome,  pry 
ing  temper,  never  at  ease,  and  never  suffering 
others  to  be  at  ease,  is  not  the  best  calculated  for 
changing  circumstances,  or  for  effecting  improve 
ment.  There  are  some  who  are  fond  of  busying 
themselves  with  the  private  and  domestic  concerns 
of  then:  neighbors  ;  who  intrude  their  advice,  and 
perhaps  their  embarrassing  help,  where  they  are 
not  asked,  and  are  not  wanted  ;  who  like  to  get 
up  an  excitement,  if  it  is  only  to  have  something 
to  do,  to  show  themselves,  or  to  get  their  names 
printed.  This  petty,  meddlesome  disposition, 


340'  MISCELLANfES. 

ought  to  be  discountenanced,  as  it  commonly  is, 
It  is  very  different  from  the  judicious,  energetic, 
brave  spirit,  which  arrays  itself  against  evil  cir 
cumstances,  and  which  alone  can  resist  them  with 
any  permanent  success. 

And,  finally,  the  very  best  rule,  as  a  universally 
applicable  one,  for  the  resistance  of  evil  circum 
stances,  is,  the  silent  and  steady  opposition  to  them 
which  each  one  who  pleases  may  manifest  in  his 
own  behavior  and  life.  There  are  those,  singular 
as  it  may  seem,  who  are  exceedingly  sensitive  to 
the  extravagances  and  follies  of  the  times,  and  de 
claim  much  against  false  notions  and  absurd  fash 
ions,  and  yet  go  along  with  them  all,  in  their  own 
practice,  exactly  the  same  as  if  they  were  entirely 
pleased  with  them.  Such  conduct  as  this  is  not 
only  no  help,  but  a  great  hindrance,  to  improve 
ment.  We  must  be  reformers  and  puritans  at 
home.  Let  a  man  take  care  of  himself  in  the  first 
place,  and  of  those  over  whom  he  has  a  natural 
and  just  influence  in  the  second  place,  and  his  and 
their  life  will,  of  itself,  be  of  incalculable  benefit  to 
the  good  cause.  If  a  fashion  or  custom  appears 
to  you  a  bad  one,  follow  it  not,  adopt  it  not,  keep 
it  away  from  your  own  doors,  let  it  not  take  a  seat 
by  your  own  hearthstone,  and  then  your  own  re 
sistance,  your  own  simplicity,  your  own  prudence, 
must  have  some  influence,  —  and  if  they  should 


SPIRIT    OF    REFORM.  341 

have  none,  you  and  yours  will  be  blameless  of  the 
great  offence,  —  and  that  surely  is  something,  is 
everything,  to  creatures  holding  themselves  ac 
countable  to  God,  and  looking  for  a  righteous 
judgment. 


29J 


STUDY  OF  NATURAL  HISTORY. 


If  we  could  open  and  intend  our  eye, 
We  all,  like  Moses,  should  espy 
Even  in  a  bush  the  radiant  Deity. 

COWLEY. 

THE  love  of  nature,  and  the  knowledge  of  natu 
ral  history,  are  two  different  and  distinct  things, 
though  the  one  frequently  leads  to  the  other.  We 
may  admire  the  objects  of  nature  fervently  and  sin 
cerely,  and  yet  know  nothing  about  them  beyond 
their  form  and  color,  and  some  of  their  most  obvious 
properties.  But  we  can  hardly  make  ourselves  ac 
quainted  with  the  construction,  the  organization, 
the  habits  and  the  classification  of  these  objects, 
without  admiring  them  also,  and  admiring  them 
the  more.  This  is  the  superiority  of  those  who 
know,  over  those  who  merely  love  nature.  And 
yet  it  has  not  been  uncommon  for  the  lovers  of 
nature  to  look  down  on  men  of  natural  science  as 
narrow-minded,  technical  plodders,  without  enthu 
siasm,  without  soul ;  the  former,  forgetting  that  it 


STUDY    OF    NATURAL    HISTORY.  343 

might  be  a  more  intense  and  abiding  love  of  na 
ture  than  their  own,  which  led  the  latter  to  inves 
tigate,  to  collect,  to  arrange,  or,  as  they  please  to 
term  it,  to  plod  and  be  technical.  Another  thing 
which  the  general  lovers  of  nature  are  apt  to  for 
get,  is,  that  they  who  study  nature  minutely,  ob 
serve  many  things  which  are  wholly  overlooked 
by  others,  and  therefore  as  they  see  more,  must 
admire  and  love  more,  simply  because  they  have 
more  to  admire  and  love.  When  they  who  love 
nature,  entertain  so  true  and  constant  a  love,  that 
they  begin  to  study  nature  ever  so  slightly,  they 
will  from  that  moment  be  convinced  that  study  is 
the  fruit  of  love,  and  will  be  ashamed  that  they 
ever  disparaged  study,  if  in  moments  of  unin- 
structed  presumption  they  ever  did. 

I  will  speak  first,  of  the  advantages  of  an  ac 
quaintance  with  natural  history  to  those  who  are 
in  situations  where  the  works  of  nature,  rather 
than  of  men's  hands,  are  around  them.  Let  us 
take,  for  example,  the  case  of  those  who  retire  from 
the  city  into  the  country,  during  the  warm  season, 
when  the  city  is  languid  and  panting,  and  the 
country  is  in  all  its  pride.  Motives  of  different 
kinds  induce  the  removal.  Some  are  operated  on 
by  a  sense  of  uneasiness  and  a  Jove  of  change  ; 
others  by  the  force  of  habit  imperceptibly  acquir 
ed  ;  others  by  a  regard  for  health  ;  and  others  by 


344  MISCELLANIES. 

the  authority  of  fashion,  the  poorest  motive  of  all. 
But  in  general  it  is  a  desire  to  escape  from  heat 
and  dust,  to  freshness,  verdure  and  freedom,  which 
leads  men  out  from  the  close  streets  into  the  open 
fields.  The  sense  of  escape,  and  the  enjoyment 
of  pure  air,  and  the  sight  of  growing  things,  and 
the  sounds  of  whispering  trees,  flowing  waters  and 
singing  birds,  are  for  a  few  days,  pleasure  and 
occupation  enough.  But  is  it  so  after  -those  few 
days  are  past  ?  It  is  to  a  small  number,  perhaps  ; 
though  the  delight  of  that  small  number  would  be 
greatly  enhanced  by  knowledge.  But  the  major 
ity  become  listless  and  uneasy  again.  The  wild 
flowers  spring  up  and  blossom  with  all  their  wonted 
beauty;  the  trees,  waters  and  birds,  join  in  melody 
as  sweetly  as  before.  Why  are  they  not  seen  and 
heard  as  at  first  ?  Where  is  the  charrn  that  made 
them  to  be  seen,  and  heard,  and  felt  ? 

"  Whither  is  fled  the  visionary  gleam  ? 
Where  is  it  now,  the  glory  and  the  dream?  " 

The  pleasure  is  gone,  because  there  was  no  in 
telligent  observation  to  detain  it.  The  interest 
dies  away,  because  it  was  not  kept  alive  by  know 
ledge  and  study.  The  view  has  been  superficial, 
comprising  only  the  more  general  and  obvious 
features  of  the  landscape,  and  the  eye  has  been 


STUDY    OF    NATURAL    HISTORY.  345 

soon  satisfied  with  seeing.  The  fields  have  been 
looked  upon  as  verdant  or  flowery  carpets  merely, 
and  though  that  is  a  poetical  way  of  regarding 
them,  who  can  be  interested  long  by  the  sight  of 
a  carpet,  however  splendid  and  varied  its  colors  ? 
The  flowers  come  and  go,  according  to  then*  times 
and  seasons  ;  they  bear  the  distinctive  marks  of 
their  separate  families ;  they  have  their  peculiar 
habits  and  various  properties,  and  uses  ;  but  all 
these  sources  of  pleasure  are  unvisited,  and  to  the 
uninstructed  eye  they  are  undistinguished  flowers ; 
flowers  the  last  month,  and  flowers  this,  or  rather 
a  confused  mass  of  coloring,  taking  the  place  of 
snow  and  death  in  the  spring  of  the  year,  and  giv 
ing  place  to  death  and  snow  in  the  winter.  A 
walk  through  the  roads,  lanes  and  meadows  of  the 
country,  soon  becomes,  by  repetition,  as  uninterest 
ing  as  a  walk  through  the  well-known  streets  and 
squares  of  the  city,  and  indeed  more  so.  The 
shelter  of  the  house  is  less  frequently  quitted,  day 
by  day,  because  it  is  now  too  warm  to  go  out,  and 
now  too  windy,  and  now  too  wet.  In  short,  the 
country  grows  very  dull. 

Am  I  not  truly,  and  not  at  all  too  strongly,  de 
scribing  the  experience  of  numbers  ;  of  many, 
even,  who  think  they  love  nature  and  the  country, 
and  who  do  so,  if  love  means  an  admiration  ex 
tremely  transient  and  easily  tired  ?  But  this  love 


346  MISCELLANIES. 

would  have  ripened  into  true  love,  if  the  proper 
means  had  been  taken.  This  admiration  would 
have  become  fixed  and  abiding,  if  it  had  been 
placed  on  the  foundations  of  observation  and  sci 
ence.  Let  any  one  branch  of  natural  history  be 
attended  to,  botany,  ornithology,  entomology,  and 
only  leisurely  attended  to,  according  to  one's  en 
tire  convenience,  and  nature  wears  a  more  attract 
ive  aspect,  and  is  seen  with  other  eyes.  Every 
walk  discloses  some  new  beauty.  You  are  among 
friends,  whose  qualities  you  know,  and  whose 
characters  you  esteem.  Acquaintances  peep  out 
from  under  the  stone  walls,  or  sing  to  you  from 
the  trees,  or  buzz  among  the  bushes.  You  learn 
to  address  them  by  their  names,  their  Christian  and 
sur-names  ;  and  you  ascertain  their  periods  of  ar 
rival  and  departure,  and  some  particulars  of  their 
business  ;  and  you  bid  them  welcome  when  they 
appear  in  their  gaiety  and  freshness  ;  and  when, 
poor  transitory  things,  they  fade  or  fly  away,  you 
bid  them  farewell.  And,  perhaps,  as  you  do  so, 
your  thoughts  recur  to  other  beings,  much  nearer 
to  yourselves,  who  come  as  sweetly  and  as  joy 
ously,  and  who  go  as  sadly  and  as  soon. 
.  And  is  it  not  something  to  know  what  plants 
are  medicinal,  and  what  are  used  in  the  arts,  and 
what  are  innocent,  and  what  are  poisonous  ?  Is 
it  not  something  to  know  the  names  of  the  earths 


STUDY    OF    NATURAL    HISTORY.  347 

and  minerals  ?  Is  it  not  something  to  know  where 
the  birds  come  from,  and  where  they  go  to,  and 
how  they  subsist,  and  how  with  varied  art  they 
build  ?  Is  it  not  something  to  know  what  the  lit 
tle  insects  are  about,  and  to  find  out,  as  we  inves 
tigate  more  and  more,  what  a  large  place  they  fill 
in  the  kingdom  and  economy  of  nature,  how  im 
portant  are  the  occupations  of  many  of  them,  how 
curious  are  the  works  and  habits  of  ah1,  of  how 
much  use  and  how  much  injury  they  are  to  man  ? 

With  these  resources  of  knowledge,  and  objects 
of  inquiry  within  his  reach,  a  man's  hours  in  the 
country  cannot  be  vacant  or  profitless.  What  is 
learned  will  assist  and  gratify,  and  what  is  to  be 
learned  will  continually  excite.  Fact  will  lead  to 
fact,  and  be  added  to  fact.  His  time  will  be  filled  ; 
his  mind  will  be  informed  ;  his  sense  of  the  value 
of  existence  will  be  increased. 

And  suppose  he  goes  to  a  part  of  the  country 
which  lies  by  the  sea-side.  The  ocean  is  so  grand 
and  imposing  ;  the  motion  and  the  music  of  the 
waves  so  fill  the  eye  and  the  ear  ;  there  is  a  quiet 
and  majestic  solitariness  in  the  firm  rocks,  and  the 
broad  sands,  arid  the  deep  waters,  which  so  sym 
pathize  with  the  soul  of  the  visiter,  that  he  thinks 
he  can  never  weary  of  such  noble,  such  spiritual 
scenery.  But  the  intensity  of  his  interest  will  be 
diminished  by  familiarity  with  its  objects,  though 


348  MISCELLANIES. 

it  may  be  from  time  to  time  renewed.  His  eyes 
cannot  be  forever  out  upon  the  sea,  nor  studying 
the  prominent  features  of  the  shore.  If  nothing 
else  demands  his  attention,  heavy  hours  will  creep 
over  him,  and  it  will  come  to  pass  that  often  will 
the  waves  lift  up  their  voices  unheard,  and  the 
shores  will  watch  for  the  visits  of  his  heart  in  vain. 
There  are  times,  tedious  times,  in  which  he  feels, 
though  he  may  not  confess,  that  the  borders  of  the 
sea,  as  well  as  the  inland  hills  and  vales,  may  be 
dull,  very  dull. 

But  why  should  he  not  here  also  observe  nature 
in  detail,  as  well  as  in  mass  ?  Is  there  nothing  in 
the  sea  but  waves  ?  Is  there  nothing  on  the  shore 
but  rocks  and  sands  ?  Have  the  briny  fields  no 
flowers  ?  Are  there  no  habitations  along  the 
coasts  but  the  scattered  huts  of  fishermen  ?  Why 
should  the  clustering  sea-plants  wave  and  glow 
unseen  ?  Why  should  the  tribes  of  shell-fish  be 
neglected  ?  The  sea  and  the  shore  teem  with  life, 
with  industry,  with  art.  Why  should  we  not  know 
something  about  them  ?  Let  the  visiter  possess 
himself  of  a  few  of  the  outlines  of  marine  botany. 
Let  him  collect  the  brilliant  and  delicate  Algae. 
Let  him  watch  the  habits  of  the  testaceous  tribes, 
and  gather  specimens  of  their  dwellings.  Let  him 
interest  himself  by  the  simple  process  of  observa 
tion,  in  what  is  growing  and  doing  about  him,  and 


STUDY    OF   NATURAL    HISTORY.  349 

it  may  be  that  he  will  think  the  longest  summer 
days  too  short  for  his  inquiries ;  and  when  the  sea 
is  covered  with  a  heavy  impenetrable  fog,  or  the 
clouds  are  plentifully  returning  their  borrowed 
rain,  he  will  have  materials  for  occupation  and  re 
search  within  doors,  the  harvest  of  his  sunny  hours, 
when  the  resources  of  others  are  exhausted. 

Nor  is  there  any  cause  for  fear  that  this  obser 
vant  and  systematic  attention  to  nature  in  the  de 
tail,  will  in  the  least  degree  disturb  or  diminish  the 
delight  inspired  by  her  grander  and  more  exten 
sive  aspects.  The  knowledge  of  the  parts  will 
assist  the  comprehension  of  the  whole.  The  soul 
of  the  student  will  rise  up  as  often  to  the  call  of 
the  deep  sky,  the  varied  landscape,  the  sweeping 
river,  or  the  mysterious  ocean,  as  it  did  before  he 
studied.  He  has  gained  much  ;  he  has  lost  no 
thing.  He  hears  when  others  hear,  and  often 
when  others  do  not ;  for  he  hears  the  whispers 
and  undertones  of  nature.  The  entrances  to  his 
heart  stand  as  wide  open  as  ever,  inviting  the 
sweet  airs  of  heaven  to  come  in,  and  course 
through  its  halls  and  chambers,  and  sing  their  wild 
melodies  at  will.  To  him 

"  The  innocent  brightness  of  a  new-born  day 
Is  lovely  yet ; " 

and  none  the  less  so?  because  he  knows  the  tribes 
of  earth  and  air  which  burst  into  being  with  it, 


350          .  MISCELLANIES. 

The  stars  will  not  despise  him  for  noting  the  least 
thing  which  they  shine  upon.  His  converse  with 
them  will  be  as  earnest  as  before.  Kind  nature 
will  not  requite  unkindly  the  attention  which  he 
pays  to  any  of  her  children.  She  will  adopt  him 
the  more  entirely  as  her  own. 

More  might  easily  be  said  to  enforce  the  truth, 
which  I  fear  is  not  regarded  as  it  ought  to  be,  that 
leisure  time  may  be  delightfully  and  profitably 
filled,  that  the  pleasure  and  interest  of  a  summer  re 
treat,  or  vacation  from  business,  may  be  preserved 
without  fading  or  diminution  ;  that  what  is  called 
the  tedium  of  life  may  often  and  often  be  wholly 
avoided,  by  even  a  moderate  acquaintance  with 
natural  history.  But  let  us  pass  to  the  considera 
tion  of  some  other  views  of  the  subject. 

Some  knowledge  of  the  objects  and  nomencla 
ture  of  natural  history  is  an  essential  aid  in  several 
of  the  paths  of  literature.  Geography  and  natural 
history  are  closely  united.  The  description  of  the 
earth's  surface  is  incomplete,  without  a  description 
of  its  productions.  In  reading  books  of  travels, 
easy  and  pleasant  as  this  kind  of  reading  is,  the 
facility  and  pleasure  are  not  unfrequently  inter 
rupted  by  the  want  of  knowledge  of  natural  his 
tory  ;  by  our  not  understanding  what  many  objects 
are  which  the  traveller  saw,  and  was  evidently 
gratified,  perhaps  overjoyed,  to  see,  and  of  which 


STUDY    OF   NATURAL    HISTORY.  351 

he  gives  the  names,  to  us  useless  names.  I  refer 
not  to  those  books  of  travels,  standing  on  the  low 
est  shelf  of  literature,  composed  of  gossiping  an 
ecdotes,  frothy  speculations,  accounts  of  roads, 
inns,  dinner-parties  and  theatres,  and  showing  no 
thing  so  clearly  as  the  egotism  and  emptiness  of 
the  writers  ;  for,  as  they  have  little  to  do  with 
natural  history,  natural  history  can  have  little  to 
do  with  them.  Nor  do  I  mean  to  say,  that  excel 
lent  books  of  travels  may  not  be  written,  and  have 
not  been  published,  containing  sound  views  and 
interesting  descriptions  of  men,  and  manners,  and 
scenery,  and  not  a  word  of  natural  history,  or  a 
term  of  science.  But  it  is  well  known  that  many 
of  the  best,  that  almost  all  the  standard  works  in 
this  department,  are  the  narratives  of  men  of  sci 
ence,  who  were  able  to  describe  the  natural  objects 
belonging  to  the  countries  which  they  visited,  and 
thus  contribute  essentially  to  the  stock  of  human 
knowledge.  But  this  communication  is  not  for 
those  who  are  unprepared  to  receive  it.  This 
valuable,  perhaps  most  valuable,  portion  of  their 
works,  is  completely  hid  from  us,  if  we  are  igno 
rant  of  natural  history.  Its  terms  are  to  us  a 
strange  language.  They  convey  to  us  no  idea. 
We  skip  over  the  pages  that  bear  them,  to  us  so 
blank  and  unprofitable,  to  others  so  full  of  instruc 
tion  and  pleasure.  But  if  we  possess  some  ac- 


352  MISCELLANIES. 

quaintance  with  natural  history,  which  need  not 
be  for  this  purpose  profound,  we  carry  with  us  a 
torch  which  lights  up  what  is  otherwise  so  obscure, 
with  a  clear  and  beautiful  light,  and  we  travel 
where  the  author  travels,  and  whatever  he  sees  we 
see  also.  Does  he  tell  us  that  in  the  forest  he  meets 
with  such  and  such  trees  and  shrubs,  and  hears 
the  song  or  the  scream  of  such  and  such  birds  ? 
We  see  them,  we  hear  them.  We  know  their 
forms.  Unless  they  are  entirely  new,  he  need  not 
paint  for  us  their  foliage  or  their  plumage.  Does 
he  name  rare  flowers  which  are  profusely  bloom 
ing  amidst  untrodden  solitudes  ?  Their  names 
come  to  us  glowing  with  their  own  colors,  and 
loaded  with  their  several  odors.  Does  he  say  that, 
in  roaming  on  the  sea-beat  shores  of  some  tropical 
island,  he  found  scattered  along  the  beach  speci 
mens  of  this  shell  and  of  that  ?  There  they  lie 
distinctly  on  the  sand  before  our  mind's  eye  ;  we 
are  acquainted  with  them  ;  perhaps  we  covet 
them.  In  short,  we  understand  the  book  com 
pletely  ;  we  go  along  with  the  traveller  without 
halting  or  weariness. 

Do  we  travel  ourselves,  and  travel  with  our  eyes 
open  ?  Have  we  any  curiosity,  any  taste  ?  Do 
we  see  in  our  path  a  splendid  plant,  a  bright  or 
singular  insect,  a  curious  shell  ?  Perhaps  we  wish 
to  give  others  an  idea  of  what  has  pleased  us,  and 


STUDY    OF    NATURAL    HISTORY.  353 

we  enter,  being  unacquainted  with  its  name,  upon 
a  description  of  it,  in  writing  or  in  words.  It  is 
an  equal  chance  whether  we  make  ourselves  intel 
ligible  or  not ;  whether  we  do  or  do  not  convey 
to  readers  or  hearers  a  knowledge  of  the  object 
we  mean.  If  we  do  not,  our  labor  is  in  vain.  If 
we  do,  two  words  would  have  answered  as.  well 
as  the  whole  of  our  description. 

As  to  the  toil  of  acquiring  the  nomenclature  of 
any  branch  of  natural  history,  it  is  in  a  great  mea 
sure  imaginary.  It  is  appalling  enough  to  glance 
at  an  apparently  interminable  list  of  Latin  and 
Greek  names,  when  we  are  entirely  unacquainted 
with  the  objects  to  which  they  belong,  and  the 
classifications  of  the  science  which  embraces  them. 
But  let  a  person  once  seriously  apply  himself  to 
study  the  science  and  collect  or  examine  its  ob 
jects,  and  the  difficulty  of  the  nomenclature  disap 
pears  ;  nay,  he  will  find  it  an  indispensable  help. 
Some  labor  must  be  given  at  first,  it  is  true,  but  I 
should  like  to  know  what  science  it  is,  which  is  to 
be  learned  without  labor.  If  objects  are  to  b3 
classified,  they  must  have  names.  And  if  natural 
ists  of  different  countries  are  to  communicate  their 
observations,  these  names  must  be  drawn  from  a 
common  language.  If  each  nation  insisted  on 
having  the  terms  of  science  in  its  own  language, 
then,  instead  of  being  obliged  to  learn  them  in  one 

30* 


354  MISCELLANIES. 

language  only,  the  Latin  or  Greek,  we  should  first 
have  to  acquire  the  English  words,  which  would 
be  about  as  much  exercise  for  the  memory,  and 
then  the  French,  Italian,  German,  and  so  on. 
The  learned  nomenclature  is  by  far  the  easiest  and 
best  for  any  branch  of  natural  science. 

In  writing  on  various  subjects,  an  acquaintance 
with  natural  history  diminishes  the  liability  of  wri 
ters  to  be  mistaken  in  matters  of  fact.  They  will 
not,  thus  guarded,  be  apt  to  speak,  for  example, 
of  a  substance  used  in  the  arts,  as  supplied  from 
one  source,  when  it  comes  from  another  far  differ 
ent.  They  will  not  attribute  to  one  animal  what 
belongs  to  another.  They  will  not  fix  on  the  land 
that  which  is  drawn  up  from  the  sea.  They  will 
not  mention  as  strange  and  new  something  which 
is  common  and  very  well  known.  Mistakes  of 
this  kind  are  not  unfrequently  committed  by  the 
best  authors.  Perfect  correctness  is  not,  indeed, 
to  be  expected  ;  but  a  slight  acquaintance  with 
natural  history  would  very  often  secure  correct 
ness  where  now  it  is  wanting ;  and  every  writer 
must  desire  to  be  as  correct  as  possible,  because 
every  error  is  a  blemish  of  greater  or  less  magni 
tude. 

The  study  of  any  branch  of  natural  history  in 
duces  or  strengthens  the  important  habit  and  fa 
culty  of  discrimination,  by  obliging  the  student  to 


STUDY    OF    NATURAL    HISTORY.  355 

perceive  and  note  those  small  differences  in  ob 
jects  which  are  the  marks  of  wide  distinctions.  To 
the  unobserving,  who  are  the  multitude,  a  rock  is 
a  rock,  everything  that  flies  in  the  insect  kingdom 
is  a  fly,  or  a  butterfly,  or  a  bug,  and  all  creeping 
things  are  worms.  But  there  is  as  much  differ 
ence  between  insects  as  between  quadrupeds, 
though  bounded  within  smaller  dimensions,  and 
consequently  less  obvious.  Let  those  differences 
be  detected,  and  the  mind  grows  quicker  in  re 
mark,  and  more  discerning  of  variety  and  of  re 
semblance.  Every  one  who  attends  to  the  opera 
tions  of  mind,  knows  of  how  great  advantage  is 
this  enlargement  of  faculty.  A  friend  of  mine, 
settled  as  minister  in  a  small  and  remote  village, 
having  turned  his  attention  to  entomology  soon 
after  his  ordination,  is  now  one  of  the  best  ento 
mologists,  and  owns  one  of  the  most  complete 
cabinets  of  insects  in  this  country.  In  the  mean 
time  he  has  not  neglected  his  proper  professional 
duties.  The  children  of  his  parish  come  in  for  a 
large  share  of  his  attention.  Among  other  good 
lessons  he  teaches  them  to  regard  with  love  and 
respect  the  works  of  God.  They  observe  the  in 
terest  taken  by  their  teacher  in  the  insect  tribe. 
Of  their  own  accord,  and  with  the  hope  of  making 
themselves  useful  to  him,  many  of  them  have  be 
come  his  assistant  collectors,  and  have  rendered 


356  MISCELLANIES. 

him  essential  service  ;  for,  like  other  boys,  they 
are  quick  of  eye,  ear  and  limb  ;  and  that  must  be 
a  smart  insect  which  can  escape,  in  the  long  run, 
from  the  clutches  of  a  smart  boy.  And  they  not 
only  catch  the  insects,  but  they  know  something 
about  them.  Insensibly  they  acquire  a  tolerable 
acquaintance  with  entomology.  I  am  told  that 
some  of  them,  unconscious  of  possessing  any  re 
markable  learning,  will  give  the  names  of  insects, 
like  so  many  professors,  and  know  a  new  or  rare  in 
sect  as  well  as  their  minister  does,  and  when  they 
find  such  a  one,  will  take  it  immediately  to  him. 
In  this  way  they  not  only  are  really  advancing  in 
some  degree  the  cause  of  science,  but  they  are  im 
proving  their  own  minds,  and  that,  too,  while  they 
are  exercising  their  bodies.  They  are  strengthen 
ing  the  important  faculty  of  discrimination,  and 
their  health  at  the  same  time. 

Again,  the  pursuit  of  natural  history  in  almost 
any  way,  as  a  study  or  an  amusement,  is  both  in 
dicative  and  productive  of  gentleness,  refinement 
and  virtue.  I  know  of  no  indication  which  would 
sooner  predispose  me  in  favor  of  a  person  with 
whom  I  might  be  accidentally  thrown  in  a  stage 
coach,  than  a  familiarity  manifested  by  him  with 
any  branch  of  natural  science,  or  an  intelligent  love 
evinced  for  its  objects.  If  he  could  tell  me  the 
names  of  the  flowers  by  the  roadside,  or  the  in- 


STUDY    OF    NATURAL    HISTORY.  357 

sects  as  they  flitted  by  us,  I  should  be  exceedingly 
surprised  if  he  ran  into  the  bar-room  for  liquor  at 
every  stopping-place,  or  let  fall  from  his  lips  an 
oath  or  an  indecent  word.  I  should  know  that  he 
occupied  some  of  his  hours  with  the  observation 
and  study  of  the  sweet  and  tranquillizing  features 
of  nature.  I  should  judge  that  he  preferred  a 
quiet  walk  to  a  noisy  revel ;  that  when  among 
men,  he  chose  the  society  of  good  men,  and  that 
he  was  fond  of  books,  which  are  the  choicest  por 
tions  of  the  spirits  of  men.  And  if  I  should  see 
in  one  who  had  been  led  astray,  sadly  astray,  by 
the  force  of  passion  or  the  tendencies  of  bad  ex 
ample,  if  I  should  see  in  such  a  one  the  love  of 
any  department  of  nature,  the  disposition  to  culti 
vate  any  branch  of  natural  science,  I  should  hail  it 
as  a  spring  in  the  desert,  and  trust  that  through 
the  "  scent  of  that  water  "  his  life  would  bud  again, 
"  and  bring  forth  boughs  like  a  plant."  And  why 
should  I  entertain  that  trust  ?  Because  I  should 
know  that  some  of  his  tastes  at  least  were  pure, 
that  some  of  his  pleasures  were  innocent,  that 
some  of  his  pursuits  were  calm,  that  hfe  Avas  not 
wholly  given  up  to  sensuality.  I  should  argue 
that  there  was  a  delicacy  in  his  mind  which  excess 
had  not  rooted  out,  that  there  was  a  sacred  prin 
ciple  in  his  heart  which  survived  amidst  corrup 
tion  ;  and  I  should  go  on  to  argue  that  this  deli- 


358  MISCELLANIES. 

cacy,  that  this  principle  would  be  made  to  thrive 
and  grow  by  study,  by  the  direction  of  the  thoughts 
to  their  culture,  till  at  last  the  desert  place  would 
become  a  garden. 

But  the  study  of  nature  has  its  religious  as  well 
as  its  moral  uses.  I  cannot  say  that  all  those  who 
cultivate  a  taste  for  natural  history,  cultivate  in 
conjunction  religious  affections  and  convictions. 
Men  will  sometimes  perversely  separate  those 
things  which  God  intends  to  unite,  and  which  al 
ways  flourish  better  when  that  intention  is  fulfilled. 
Nor  do  I  mean  to  say  that  men  cannot  be  religious 
and  pious  unless  they  study  nature  and  natural 
history.  Piety  has  more  sources  and  supports 
than  one.  If  one  source  fails,  piety  does  not  ne 
cessarily  dry  up,  because  it  is  still  fed  from  other 
fountains.  If  one  support  is  deficient,  yet  piety 
may  not  fall,  because  there  are  other  foundations 
to  hold  it  up.  Happy  for  us  that  it  is  so.  It  is 
nevertheless  true,  most  true,  that  the  study  and 
contemplation  of  nature  leads  directly  and  by  an 
easy  and  excellent  way  to  the  adoration  and  love 
of  nature's  God  ;  that  the  examination  of  the  liv 
ing,  varied  and  exquisite  mechanism  about  us, 
constructed  not  by  human  hands,  may  be  the  daily 
means  of  our  beholding  and  acknowledging  the 
planning,  forming,  ruling  hand  of  the  Almighty. 
Testimony  to  this  truth  has  been  borne  abundantly 


STUDY    OF   NATURAL    HISTORY.  359 

by  the  best  and  wisest  of  men  ;  by  poets,  natural 
ists,  philosophers.  "  To  see  all  things  in  God" 
say  Kirby  and  Spence,  in  the  preface  to  their  val 
uable  and  delightful  work  on  Entomology,  "  has 
been  accounted  one  of  the  peculiar  privileges  of  a 
future  state  ;  and  in  this  present  life  to  see  God  in 
all  things,  in  the  mirror  of  the  creation  to  behold 
and  adore  the  reflected  glory  of  the  Creator,  is  no 
mean  attainment ;  and  it  possesses  this  advantage, 
that  thus  we  sanctify  our  pursuits,  and,  instead  of 
loving  the  creatures  for  themselves,  are  led  by  the 
survey  of  them  and  their  instincts  to  the  love  of 
Him  who  made  and  endowed  them." 

The  Poet  of  the  Seasons  has  grown  somewhat 
old-fashioned,  and  though  he  still  holds  his  rank 
among  poets,  is  not  often  quoted.  Let  him  how 
ever  be  a  witness  here. 

"  And  yet  was  ever  faltering  tongue  of  man, 
Almighty  Father  !  silent  in  thy  praise, 
Thy  works  themselves  would  raise  a  general  voice, 
E'en  in  the  depth  of  solitary  woods, 
By  human  foot  untrod  ;  proclaim  thy  power, 
And  to  the  choir  celestial  Thee  resound, 
The  eternal  cause,  support,  and  end  of  all ! " 

There  are  many,  I  know,  and  belonging  to  the 
opposite  classes  of  men  of  the  world  and  men  of 
religion,  who  are  disposed  to  regard  this  alleged 
connection  between  natural  science  and  piety,  be- 


360  MISCELLANIES. 

tween  the  creation  and  the  Creator,  as  a  mere 
matter  of  poetry,  well  enough  for  some  to  sing 
about  and  show  off  a  little  enthusiasm,  but  as  a 
practical  thing,  not  worth  their  attention  as  sensi 
ble  or  as  Christian  persons.  Now  it  is  precisely 
as  a  practical  thing  that  its  claims  to  attention  are 
to  be  pressed.  And  it  is  because  it  is  not  put  into 
a  course  of  practice,  that  it  is  not  regarded  as 
practical  and  is  thus  undeservedly  slighted.  Days 
like  those  in  which  "  Lady  Glanville's  will  was 
attempted  to  be  set  aside  on  the  ground  of  lunacy, 
evinced  by  no  other  act  than  her  fondness  for  col 
lecting  insects,  and  Ray  had  to  appear  at  Exeter 
on  the  trial  as  a  witness  of  her  sanity  ;  "  days  too, 
like  those  in  which  Bishop  Horsely  voted  against 
Sir  Joseph  Banks,  as  president  of  the  Royal  So 
ciety,  "  because  he  was  a  collector  of  cockle-shells 
and  bugs,"  are  probably  gone  by,  both  in  England 
and  here  ;  but  the  days  are  not  yet  come  when  an 
attentive  and  minute  observation  of  nature  shall 
cease  to  be  regarded  by  a  large  number  of  sensi 
ble  and  good  men,  and  by,  perhaps,  the  majority 
of  society,  as  an  undignified,  frivolous,  useless  pur 
suit;  and  instead  of  this,  be  generally  considered, 
what  it  really  is,  as  an  elevating,  refining,  religious 
exercise  of  the  mind  and  heart.  When  those  days 
do  come,  they  will  be  happy  days  for  religion,  for 
men  will  be  more  generally,  more  deeply,  more 


STUDY    OF    NATURAL    HISTORY.  361 

practically  convinced  than  they  now  are,  that  they 
are  really  living  and  moving  in  God's  world  and 
among  God's  creatures. 

I  have  already  given  two  quotations  in  testi 
mony  of  the  strict  connection  between  nature  and 
religion,  the  one  from  a  naturalist,  and  the  other 
from  a  poet.  In  conclusion  of  the  subject,  I  will 
offer  a  third  from  a  philosophic  divine  ;  both  be 
cause  the  name  of  the  cool  and  rational  Paley 
must  be  admitted  as  an  authority  by  the  cool  and 
rational,  and  because  the  argument  is  set  forth 
with  his  accustomed  clearness  and  force. 

"  In  a  moral  view,  I  shall  not,  I  believe,  be  con 
tradicted  when  I  say,  that  if  one  train  of  thinking 
be  more  desirable  than  another,  it  is  that  which 
regards  the  phenomena  of  nature  with  a  constant 
reference  to  a  Supreme  Intelligent  Author.  To 
have  made  this  the  ruling,  the  habitual  sentiment 
of  our  minds,  is  to  have  laid  the  foundation  of 
everything  which  is  religious.  The  world  thence 
forth  becomes  a  temple ,  and  life  itself  one  continual 
act  of  adoration.  The  change  is  no  less  than  this, 
that  whereas  formerly  God  was  seldom  in  our 
thoughts,  we  can  now  scarcely  look  upon  anything 
without  perceiving  its  relation  to  him.  Every  or 
ganized  natural  body,  in  the  provisions  which  it 
contains  for  its  sustentation  and  propagation,  testi 
fies  a  care  on  the  part  of  the  Creator,  expressly 

31 


362  MISCELLANIES. 

directed  to  these  purposes.  We  are  on  all  sides 
surrounded  by  such  bodies  ;  examined  in  their 
parts,  wonderfully  curious  ;  compared  with  one 
another,  no  less  wonderfully  diversified.  So  that 
the  mind,  as  well  as  the  eye,  may  either  expatiate 
in  variety  and  multitude,  or  fix  itself  down  to  the 
investigation  of  particular  divisions  of  the  science. 
And  in  either  case,  it  will  rise  up  from  its  occupa 
tion,  possessed  by  the  subject  in  a  very  different 
manner,  and  with  a  very  different  degree  of  influ 
ence,  from  what  a  mere  assent  to  any  verbal  pro 
position  which  can  be  formed  concerning  the 
existence  of  the  Deity  —  at  least,  that  merely  com 
plying  assent  with  which  those  about  us  are  satis 
fied,  and  with  which  we  are  too  apt  to  satisfy  our 
selves,  will  or  can  produce  upon  the  thoughts." 


DUTIES  OF    WINTER. 


;  In  rich  men's  halls  the  fire  is  piled, 

And  ermine  robes  keep  out  the  weather  ; 
In  poor  men's  huts  the  fire  is  low, 
Through  broken  panes  the  keen  winds  blow, 
And  old  and  young  are  cold  together." 

MARY  HOWITT. 


As  each  age  of  our  life  has  duties  belonging  to 
it,  which  are  in  a  measure  peculiar  to  itself;  as 
a  child  is  bound  to  some  acts,  to  which  a  man  is 
not  equally  bound  ;  so  each  season  of  the  year  has 
duties,  which  differ  in  degree  or  kind  from  those 
of  the  other  seasons,  and  Spring,  Summer,  Au 
tumn  and  Winter  are  distinctly  marked  by  these 
human  duties,  as  well  as  by  the  signs  of  the  zodiac. 

The  two  principal  duties,  which,  though  belong 
ing  to  all  the  seasons,  seem  to  be  peculiarly  attend 
ant  on  the  season  of  winter,  are  those  of  instruction 
and  of  charity  ;  and  of  these  duties  I  would  now 
speak, 


364  MISCELLANIES. 

First,  of  instruction.  In  the  warm  portion  of 
our  year,  when  the  sun  reigns,  and  the  fields  are 
carpeted  with  herbs  and  flowers,  and  the  forests 
are  loaded  with  riches  and  magnificence,  nature 
seems  to  insist  on  instructing  us  herself,  and  in  her 
own  easy,  insensible  way.  In  the  mild  and  whis 
pering  air  there  is  an  invitation  to  go  abroad  which 
few  can  resist ;  and  when  abroad  we  are  in  a 
school  where  all  may  learn,  without  trouble  or 
tasking,  and  where  we  may  be  sure  to  learn 
if  we  will  simply  open  our  hearts.  But  stern 
winter  comes,  and  drives  us  back  into  our  towns 
and  houses,  and  there  we  must  sit  down,  and 
learn  and  teach  with  serious  application  of  the 
mind,  and  by  the  prompting  of  duty.  As  we  are 
bidden  to  this  exertion,  so  are  we  better  able  to 
make  it  than  in  the  preceding  season.  The  body, 
which  was  before  unnerved,  is  now  braced  up  to 
the  extent  of  its  capacity  ;  and  the  mind  which  was 
before  dissipated  by  the  fair  variety  of  external  at 
tractions,  collects  and  concentrates  its  powers,  as 
those  attractions  fade  and  disappear.  The  natu 
ral  limits  of  day  and  night,  also,  conspire  to  the 
same  end,  and  are  in  unison  with  the  other  inti 
mations  of  the  season.  In  summer,  the  days,  glad 
to  linger  on  the  beautiful  earth,  almost  exclude  the 
quiet  and  contemplative  nights,  which  are  only 
long  enough  for  sleep.  But  in  the  winter  the  lat- 


DUTIES    OF    WINTER.  365 

ler  gain  the  ascendency.  Slowly  and  royally 
they  sweep  back  with  their  broad  shadows,  and 
hushing  the  earth  with  the  double  spell  of  dark 
ness  and  coldness,  issue  their  silent  mandates,  and 
—  while  the  still  snow  falls,  and  the  waters  are 
congealed — call  to  reflection,  to  study,  to  mental 
labor  and  acquisition. 

The  long  winter  nights  !  Dark,  cold  and  stern 
as  they  seem,  they  are  the  friends  of  wisdom,  the 
patrons  of  literature,  the  nurses  of  vigorous,  pa 
tient,  inquisitive  and  untiring  intellect.  To  some, 
indeed,  they  come  particularly  associated,  when 
not  with  gloom,  with  various  gay  scenes  of  amuse 
ment,  with  lighted  halls,  lively  music,  and  a  few 
(hundred)  friends.  To  others,  the  dearest  scene 
which  they  present  is  the  cheerful  fireside,  instruct 
ive  books,  studious  and  industrious  children,  and 
those  friends,  whether  many  or  few,  whom  the 
heart  and  experience  acknowledge  to  be  such. 
Society  has  claims  ;  social  intercourse  is  profitable 
as  well  as  pleasant ;  amusements  are  naturally 
sought  for  by  the  young,  and  such  as  are  innocent 
they  may  well  partake  of;  but  it  may  be  asked, 
whether,  when  amusements  run  into  excess,  they 
do  not  leave  their  innocence  behind  them  in  the 
career  ;  whether  light  social  intercourse,  when  it 
takes  up  a  great  deal  of  time,  has  anything  valua 
ble  to  pay  in  return  for  that  time  ;  and  whether 

31* 


366  MISCELLANIES. 

the  claims  of  society  can  in  any  way  be  better  sat 
isfied  than  by  the  intelligence,  the  sobriety  and 
the  peaceableness  of  its  members  ?  Such  qualities 
and  habits  must  be  acquired  at  home ;  and  not  by 
idleness  even  there,  but  by  study.  The  winter 
evenings  seem  to  be  given  to  us,  not  exclusively, 
but  chiefly,  for  instruction.  They  invite  us  to  in 
struct  ourselves,  to  instruct  others,  and  to  do  our 
part  in  furnishing  all  proper  means  of  instruction. 
We  must  instruct  ourselves.  Whatever  our  age, 
condition,  or  occupation  may  be,  this  is  a  duty 
which  we  cannot  safely  neglect,  and  for  the  per 
formance  of  which  the  season  affords  abundant 
opportunity.  To  know  what  other  minds  have 
done,  is  not  the  work  of  a  moment ;  and  it  is  only 
to  be  known  from  the  records  which  they  have 
left  of  themselves,  or  from  what  has  been  recorded 
of  them.  To  instruct  ourselves  is  necessarily  our 
own  work  ;  but  we  cannot  well  instruct  ourselves 
without  learning  from  others.  The  stores  of  our 
own  minds  it  is  for  ourselves  to  use  for  the  best 
effects  and  to  the  greatest  advantage  ;  but  if  we  do 
not  acquire  with  diligence,  from  external  sources, 
there  would  be  very  few  of  us  who  would  have 
any  stores  to  use.  Let  no  one  undervalue  intel 
lectual  means,  who  wishes  to  effect  intellectual 
ends.  The  best  workman  will  generally  want  the 
best  tools,  and  the  best  assortment  of  them. 


DUTIES    OF    WINTER.  367 

We  must  instruct  others.  This  duty  belongs 
most  especially  to  parents.  All  who  have  child 
ren,  have  pupils.  The  winter  evening  is  the  cho 
sen  time  to  instruct  them,  when  they  have  past  the 
tenderest  years  of  their  childhood.  Those  who 
have  school-tasks  to  learn,  should  not  be  left  to 
toil  in  solitude  ;  but  should  be  encouraged  by  the 
presence,  and  aided  by  the  superior  knowledge,  of 
their  parents,  whose  pleasure  as  well  as  duty  it 
should  be  to  lend  them  a  helping  hand  along  the 
road,  not  always  easy,  of  learning.  While  the 
child  is  leaning  over  his  book,  the  father  and  the 
mother  should  be  nigh,  that  when  he  looks  up  in 
weariness  or  perplexity,  he  may  find,  at  least,  the 
assistance  of  sympathy.  They  need  not  be  abso 
lutely  tied  to  the  study-table,  but  they  should  not 
often  hesitate  between  the  calls  of  amusement 
abroad,  and  the  demands  for  parental  example, 
guidance  and  companionship  at  home.  They  will 
lose  no  happiness  by  denying  themselves  many 
pleasures,  and  will  find  that  the  most  brilliant  ot 
lustres  are  their  own  domestic  lamp,  and  the  cheer 
ful  and  intelligent  eyes  of  their  children. 

But  all  have  not  children  ;  and  the  children  of 
some  are  too  young  to  be  permitted  to  remain 
with  their  parents  beyond  the  earliest  hours  of 
evening ;  and  the  children  of  others  are  old  enough 
to  accompany  their  parents  abroad.  For  all  those 


368  MISCELLANIES. 

who  think  they  could  pleasantly  and  profitably 
receive  instruction  of  a  public  nature,  and  for  this 
purpose  spend  an  hour  or  two  away  from  their 
homes,  there  is,  happily,  a  plenty  of  instruction 
provided.  Winter  is  the  very  season  for  public 
instruction,  and  it  must  be  said  to  their  honor,  that 
our  citizens  have  excellently  improved  it  as  such. 
Opportunities  for  gaining  useful  knowledge  have 
been  provided,  and  they  have  not  been  neglected 
by  those  for  whom  the  provision  has  been  made. 
The  fountains  of  waters  have  been  opened,  and 
the  thirsty  have  been  refreshed.  Though  home 
instruction  is  to  be  placed  at  the  head  of  all  instruc 
tion,  yet  there  are  numbers  who  have  not  instruc 
tion  at  home,  and  numbers  who  have  none  at  home 
to  whom  they  may  communicate  instruction  ;  and 
there  are  numbers  who  find  it  convenient  and  use 
ful  to  mingle  public  and  domestic  instruction  to 
gether,  or  alternate  the  one  with  the  other.  And 
when  it  is  considered  that  the  public  lectures  re 
ferred  to  are  charged  with  little  expense  to  the 
hearers  ;  that  they  are  delivered  by  the  best  and 
ablest  men  among  us  ;  that  hundreds  of  youth  re 
sort  to  them,  many  of  whom  are  in  all  probability 
saved  from  idleness,  and  some  from  vice  and 
crime  ;  and  that  to  all  who  may  attend  them  they 
afford  a  rational  employment  of  time,  we  may  look 
to  the  continuance  of  such  means  of  knowledge 


DUTIES    OF    WINTER.  369 

and  virtue  as  one  of  the  most  inestimable  of  ben 
efits. 

I  come  now  to  the  second  great  duty  of  winter, 
that  of  charity.  Winter  is  the  peculiar  season  of 
charity.  The  sun,  that  generous  friend  of  the 
poor,  is  summoned  to  withdraw  his  heat,  and 
seems  to  say  to  us  that  we  must  keep  our  hearts 
the  warmer  toward  them  till  he  returns  with  it 
again.  The  piercing  cold  finds  an  easy  entrance 
through  the  broken  panes  and  wide  seams  of  the 
day-laborer's  room  or  hovel,  and  little  fire  on  his 
hearth  to  tame  its  severity.  The  price  of  fuel  is 
high.  The  children  fall  sick  from  cold,  and  scan 
tiness  of  clothing,  and  insufficient  food  ;  and  by- 
and-by  the  father  or  the  mother  is  obliged  to  give 
up  labor  and  lie  down  on  the  bed  of  pain.  This 
is  the  season  for  charity.  If  they  who  are  in  plen 
ty,  think  not  now  and  act  not  for  those  who  are 
destitute,  I  believe  that  they  will  one  day  rue  their 
insensibility.  I  know  that  difficulties  surround 
this  whole  subject.  I  know  that  the  benevolent 
are  frequently  imposed  upon  by  the  most  outrage 
ous  falsehoods ;  I  know  that  improvidence,  intem 
perance  and  multifold  vices  are  the  prolific  causes 
of  pauperism  and  misery.  I  know  all  this  well, 
because  I  have  seen  it.  I  know  that  if  we  give 
ever  so  cautiously,  we  shall  sometimes  give  to  the 
undeserving.  I  have  been  imposed  upon  myself, 


370  MISCELLANIES. 

and  perhaps  laughed  at  by  the  objects  of  my  pity. 
Every  one  has  been  imposed  upon  who  has  lis 
tened  to  the  suggestions  of  his  heart  ;  and  if  he 
has  not  been  imposed  upon  at  all,  I  believe  that 
he  has  greatly  imposed  upon  himself.  I  would 
rather  be  deceived  once,  twice,  thrice,  than  to 
know  that  through  my  neglect,  or  my  excessive 
caution,  a  fellow-being  had  been  frozen  or  starved, 
or  had  suffered  severely  through  cold  and  hunger. 
It  is  certainly  our  duty  to  examine  as  well  as  to 
give,  and  make  a  wide  difference,  both  in  our  re 
gards  and  donations,  between  laziness  and  crip 
pled  industry,  between  the  vicious  poor  and  the 
virtuous  poor.  But  when  the  most  degraded  cry 
out  for  food  and  clothing  and  fire,  shall  they  be 
refused  ?  Surely  they  err  in  every  point  of  view, 
when  they  forsake  the  path  of  honesty  and  truth  ; 
for  they  inevitably  lose  by  it.  But  ignorance,  dark 
ignorance,  is  some  excuse,  and  pinching  want  is  a 
strong  and  present  temptation.  And  then  how 
stands  our  own  account  with  Heaven  ?  Are  we 
ready  that  our  own  offences  should  be  strictly 
marked,  and  severely  visited  ? 

These  circumstances  are  all  worthy  of  consid 
eration,  as  are  others  connected  with  the  same 
subject,  which  I  have  no  time  even  to  hint  at. 
And  after  all  our  views  on  this  side  and  on  that, 
after  all  our  doubts,  and  weighings,  and  balanc- 


DUTIES    OF    WINTER.  371 

ings,  the  prevailing  arguments  for  immediate  ac 
tion  are  in  the  season,  on  the  duties  of  which  we 
are  speaking.  Frost,  and  ice,  and  snow,  and  sick 
ness  make  forcible  appeals.  When  the  loud  winds 
preach  of  charity,  and  the  frequent  storms  call  for 
alms,  they  must  be  heard. 

And  they  are  heard.  There  are  many  who 
hear  them.  Witness  the  large  number  of  chari 
table  associations  which  have  been  formed,  and 
are  pleading  for  means  with  those  who  possess 
means,  almost  every  week  through  the  winter,  by 
addresses,  and  sermons,  and  circulars  ;  and  wit 
ness,  too,  those  more  private  societies  and  circles, 
who  make  no  public  appeals,  but  carry  on  their 
work  of  charity  in  God's  domestic  temples,  their 
own  homes.  Some  are  wont  to  complain  of  this 
multiplication  of  societies ;  but  how  is  it  to  be 
\vell  avoided  in  a  large  and  increasing  population  ? 
The  subdivision  of  charities  becomes,  like  the  sub 
division  of  labor,  necessary  ;  it  is  a  subdivision  of 
labor  ;  and  while  the  widows  and  the  fatherless 
are  both  numerous  and  both  to  be  visited,  there  is 
no  reason  why  the  wants  and  the  sufferings  of  the 
one  should  not  be  attended  to  by  one  society,  and 
those  of  the  other  by  another.  No  doubt  these 
charities  also  are  sometimes  abused  ;  but  perhaps 
not  so  often  as  some  vexatious  instances  we  have 
known  or  heard  of,  may  lead  us  to  suppose. 


372  MISCELLANIES. 

What  good  thing  should  we  attempt,  if  the  pro 
bability  of  its  abuse  were  to  stop  our  proceedings  ? 
What  good  thing  should  we  receive  from  the 
Source  of  good,  if  that  consideration  should  stop 
the  blessings  which  are  flowing  down  to  us  in  per 
petual  streams  ?  Certainly  it  is  very  bad  that  a 
poor  self-forsaken  being  should  take  the  pittance 
which  is  given  to  him  for  food  or  clothing,  and 
purchase  with  it  the  intoxicating  draught.  It  is 
almost  too  bad  for  charity  herself  to  bear  —  did 
not  charity  bear  all  things.  But  there  are  greater 
abuses  than  this.  I  must  say  it  plainly,  though 
with  no  sentiment,  I  trust,  stronger  than  that  of 
sorrow,  that  a  case  of  far  greater  abuse  is  the  case 
of  him  who  is  in  the  possession  of  every  comfort 
and  luxury,  and  who  devotes  them  all  to  the  pam 
pering  of  self,  and  bestows  little  or  no  thought  on 
those  who  would  bless  him  for  his  crumbs  and 
leavings,  and  are  shivering  and  sickening  for  the 
want  of  them.  As  I  am  in  the  presence  of  God, 
I  had  rather  be  the  former  than  the  latter  to  stand 
before  him  in  judgment. 

I  have  no  immediate  purpose  in  these  remarks. 
I  am  writing  for  no  charitable  occasion.  My  only 
object  is  to  lead  feeling  and  sober  reflection  to  the 
general  duty  of  charity  at  this  season. 

Is  it  asked,  where  will  be  the  end  of  all  these 
efforts  and  of  the  demands  for  them  ?  "  The  poor 


DUTIES    OF    WINTER.  373 

ye  have  always  with  you."  Heaven  and  earth 
will  pass  away  before  that  word.  Poverty  will 
always  exist ;  and  yet  its  amount  in  comparison 
with  population,  may  be  constantly  decreasing  in 
extent,  or  severity,  or  both.  It  must  decrease  in 
some  proportion  with  the  diffusion  of  knowledge, 
and  the  judicious  efforts  of  charitable  men.  More 
is  to  be  hoped  for  from  the  diffusion  of  knowledge, 
particularly  of  religious  knowledge,  than  from  any 
thing  else  whatever.  But  this  is  too  wide  a  field 
to  enter  upon  now.  One  position  may  safely  be 
assumed.  —  that  were  not  aid  extended  in  the 
mean  time  to  the  poor  ;  were  not  food  and  fuel 
bought  for  them,  and  clothing  made  for  them,  and 
medicines  and  medical  attendance  provided  for 
them  ;  there  would  be  a  scene  of  desperation,  vio 
lence  and  death  around  us  too  terrible  to  think  of. 
It  would  be  well  for  those  who  sneer  at  societies, 
and  at  the  same  time  will  make  no  personal  exer 
tion  or  sacrifice,  to  consider  this,  and  admit  the 
possibility,  to  say  the  least,  that  those  whose  efforts 
they  are  deriding,  are  contributing  not  a  little  to 
secure  to  them  the  possessions  which  they  love  so 
dearly. 

If  some  things  are  dark  and  perplexing  in  rela 
tion  to  this  subject,  one  thing  seems  to  be  very 
clear,  which  is  that  we  should  help  one  another 
through  the  short  season  of  this  our  life.     The 
32 


374  MISCELLANIES. 

winter  of  death  will  soon  shut  in  upon  the  bright 
est  and  warmest  prospects  of  the  gayest  and  most 
flourishing.  "  The  grass  withereth,  the  flower 
fadeth,  but  the  word  of  the  Lord  endureth  for 
ever."  If  we  look  for  a  renovating  and  perpetual 
spring  to  chase  the  gloom,  it  must  be  in  sole  reli 
ance  on  the  word  and  power  of  God.  The  ice  of 
that  winter  is  so  fast  that  nought  but  his  breath 
may  loosen  it.  "  He  sendeth  out  his  word  and 
melteth  them  ;  he  bloweth  with  his  wind,  and  the 
waters  flow."  What  will  procure  us  the  enjoy 
ment  of  that  eternal  spring  ?  What  will  bring  our 
souls  into  the  full  and  gladdening  beams  of  life's 
Source  and  Sun  ?  What  can  it  be,  but  obedience 
to  his  great  law  of  charity  ? 


THE  HOLY  LAND. 


THE  land  which  is  spoken  of  by  the  prophet 
Ezekiel,  as  "  the  glory  of  all  lands,"  still  retains 
its  preeminent  character  in  the  eyes  of  those  who 
thoroughly  consider  its  claims.  It  may  not  now 
flow  so  plentifully  with  milk  and  honey,  as  it  then 
did,  though  there  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  its 
natural  fertility  is  impaired  ;  but  while  its  climate 
probably,  and  its  extraordinary  geographical  posi 
tion  certainly,  remain  as  they  were,  spiritual  associ 
ations  of  the  sublimest  character  have  been  added 
to  those  which  it  possessed  in  the  days  of  the 
prophet,  and  a  glory  encircles  it,  higher  than  earth 
ly,  toward  which  the  hearts  of  men  are  turned  in 
homage,  and  so  will  be  turned,  till  the  end  of  the 
world.  This  supremacy  is  not  affected  by  the 
character  of  its  inhabitants,  and  cannot  be  over 
thrown  by  any  future  revolutions.  The  people 
of  God  have  been  driven  from  the  land  which  he 
promised  and  gave  them ;  but  still  it  is  the  Holy 
Land.  The  people  of  other  lands  have  become 


376  MISCELLANIES. 

civilized  and  refined,  while  barbarians  have  been 
roaming  over  Palestine  ;  but  Palestine  is  still,  and 
ever  must  be,  reverenced,  as  the  country  in  which 
refinement  and  civilization  had  their  most  copious 
and  effectual  source.  The  wild  Arab  may  lurk 
for  plunder  among  the  ruined  cities  of  Judea,  and 
the  Turk  may  rule  on  Mount  Sion,  and  give  the 
law  in  the  city  of  the  great  king ;  but  they  cannot 
rob  Bethlehem  of  its  cradle,  or  Calvary  of  its 
cross,  or  one  hill,  or  stream,  or  wilderness,  of  its 
sacred  story ;  neither  can  they  interfere  with  the 
authority  of  that  divine  law  which  goes  forth  from 
Israel,  or  touch  with  a  finger  that  spiritual  sceptre 
which  is  stretched  out  from  the  land  of  patriarchs, 
prophets,  and  Christ,  over  the  most  enlightened 
portions  of  the  globe. 

Most  peculiarly  is  the  land  of  Canaan  the  land 
of  the  soul ;  the  land  which  seems  to  be  nearest 
heaven  of  any  spot  on  earth,  to  those  whose 
hopes  are  in  heaven  as  the  destination  and  rest  of 
souls.  How  can  it  be  otherwise,  when  it  is  recog 
nized  as  the  land  in  which  the  great  dispensations 
of  God  were  made  known  to  men ;  on  which  the 
Son  of  God  descended  from  heaven,  and  from 
which  he  ascended  to  his  Father  again  ?  But 
look  at  it  with  a  view  to  its  geographical  position 
alone,  and  see  what  a  conspicuous  place  it  occu 
pies  on  the  map  of  the  world.  Washed  by  the 


THE   HOLY    LAND.  377 

ultimate  waves  of  the  Mediterranean,  the  very 
name  of  which  sea  denotes  its  central  locality, 
Palestine  looks  down  over  the  long  extent  of  its 
surface,  glancing  at  the  whole  southern  coast  of 
Europe  on  the  right,  and  the  whole  northern 
coast  of  Africa  on  the  left.  Near,  on  the  right 
hand,  are  the  shores  and  islands  of  classical 
Greece.  Near,  on  the  left  hand,  are  the  plains 
and  pyramids  of  Egypt,  wrapped  in  the  clouds  of 
ancient  mystery,  and  never  shadowed  by  the  rain- 
clouds  of  heaven.  Above,  on  the  north,  lies  the 
great  Syrian  domain.  Behind,  toward  the  east, 
are  the  countries  which  are  watered  by  the  Eu 
phrates  and  Tigris.  Below,  to  the  south,  is  the 
expanse  of  the  Red  Sea,  cleaving  its  way  through 
Egypt  and  Arabia,  up  within  sight  almost  of  the 
walls  of  Jerusalem,  as  if  to  offer  a  passage  down  its 
length  to  the  whole  Oriental  world.  Look  on  a 
map  of  the  world  as  known  to  the  ancients,  and 
you  perceive  that  the  Holy  Land  occupies  nearly 
the  mathematical  centre  of  that  world.  Look  on 
a  map  of  the  round  world  as  known  to  us,  and 
you  perceive  that  the  Holy  Land  stands  at  the 
very  threshold,  by  the  avenues  of  the  Mediterra 
nean  and  Red  Seas,  between  the  European  and 
American  continents  and  the  rich  empires  of  the 
East. 

As  Palestine  lies  between  the  thirty-first  and 

32* 


378  MISCELLANIES. 

thirty-fourth  degrees  of  north  latitude,  its  climate 
is  favorable  to  many  of  the  vegetable  productions 
of  both  temperate  and  tropical  countries.  The 
districts  lying  on  each  side  of  the  river  Jordan, 
which  flows  through  nearly  its  whole  length,  join 
ing  the  Lake  of  Gennesareth  with  the  Dead  Sea, 
are  almost  spontaneously  fertile.  The  whole 
country  might  be  made  at  any  time  as  productive 
as  it  once  was,  under  the  hands  of  industrious 
cultivators  ;  and  ancient  history,  profane  as  well 
as  sacred,  bears  abundant  witness  to  its  former 
productiveness.  The  principal  character,  how 
ever,  which  seems  stamped  on  the  surface  of  this 
land,  is  that  of  solemnity,  as  if  it  were  intended 
from  the  first  to  be  a  Holy  Land.  Mountains, 
which  are  God's  altars,  mountains,  rocky,  precip 
itous,  and  stern,  rise  up  in  all  its  extent.  The 
majestic  sweeps  and  summits  of  Lebanon  guard 
its  northern  border  ;  Tabor  and  Hermon  and  Car- 
mel,  with  other  hills  of  holy  name,  stand  on  their 
everlasting  foundations  among  the  tribes  of  Israel ; 
and  Jerusalem,  built  upon  hills,  is  encompassed 
by  them,  as  by  a  second  and  heaven-built  wall. 
The  beauty  of  the  Lake  of  Galilee  is  also  made 
solemn  by  the  mountains  which  hang  over  it  and 
shut  it  in  ;  the  stream  of  Jordan  flows  through  a 
succession  of  rich  but  silent  plains,  and  deep,  twi 
light  wildernesses  of  forest,  such  as  that  in  which 


THE    HOLY    LAND.  379 

John  urged  a  nation  to  repent ;  while  the  Dead 
Sea,  in  svhich  the  sacred  stream  is  lost,  tells  by  its 
name  alone,  the  story  of  buried  cities,  forever 
hidden  in  its  awful  beds,  and  by  the  stillness,  the 
weight,  and  the  bitterness  of  its  waters,  and  the 
intense  solitariness  of  its  shores,  of  the  abiding 
judgments  of  God. 

But  what  a  history  has  this  land  !  What  an 
important  portion  of  man's  spiritual  history  is 
concentrated  within  its  not  extensive  borders ! 
Originally  settled  by  the  sons  of  Canaan,  from 
whom  it  derives  one  of  its  appellations,  —  Canaan, 
the  son  of  Ham,  and  the  grandson  of  Noah,  —  it 
afterwards  became  the  adopted  country  of  Abra 
ham,  the  father  of  the  Jewish  family,  to  which  he 
emigrated  from  Chaldea,  and  in  which  he  ob 
tained  possessions.  It  was  the  native  country  of 
Isaac,  of  Jacob,  and  of  the  sons  of  Jacob,  the 
patriarchs  of  the  twelve  tribes.  Here  they  had 
their  dwellings,  and  altars,  and  pastures,  and 
wells,  and  tombs.  From  this  land,  when  a  sore 
famine  was  in  it,  Jacob  and  his  sons,  with  their 
families  and  their  flocks  and  herds,  went  down  in 
to  Egypt.  Back  again  towards  this  land  did  their 
descendants  return,  under  the  conduct  of  Moses 
and  Aaron,  and  a  mightier  Hand  than  theirs.  — 
"  Thou  leddest  thy  people  like  a  flock,  by  the  hand 
of  Moses  and  Aaron,"  —  journeying  through  the 


380  MISCELLANIES. 

intervening  wilderness,  and  sojourning  in  it  for  the 
period  of  forty  years  ;  and,  finally,  under  the  cap 
tainship  of  Joshua,  did  they  enter  this  land,  and 
establish  their  separate  tribes  in  their  ancient 
home. 

Then  came  the  times  of  the  judges  ;  and  then 
the  splendid  reigns  of  the  shepherd-king  and 
monarch-minstrel  David,  and  of  his  son  Solo 
mon,  so  wise  in  his  youth,  so  foolish  in  his  age. 
During  these  periods  the  divine  institutions  of 
Moses  were  in  full  operation  ;  the  bounds  of  Isra 
el's  possessions  were  enlarged  ;  his  commerce  ex 
tended  to  remote  India  ;  and  his  name  was  known 
and  respected  among  the  nations.  The  glorious 
temple  was  built  at  Jerusalem,  whither  all  the 
tribes  went  up  to  worship  Jehovah ;  and  those  un 
equalled  Psalms  were  sung  there,  which  are  now 
sung  in  so  many  languages  and  in  so  many 
lands. 

Next  we  have  the  decline  of  morals  and  of 
power  ;  the  revolt  and  separation  of  the  ten  tribes ; 
those  mournful  captivities  ;  the  country  ravaged  ; 
Jerusalem  overthrown  and  desolate  ;  the  temple 
profaned,  its  walls  shattered,  its  altar  cold,  its 
courts  empty,  its  music  silent.  Yet  through  this 
period  it  is,  that  we  hear  those  wonderful  strains 
of  prophecy,  modulated  according  to  the  demands 
of  the  times,  now  persuading,  encouraging,  and 


THE    HOLY    LAND.  381 

blessing  in  tones  of  sweetest  poetry  ;  now  threat 
ening  and  denouncing  in  Heaven's  voice  of  thun 
der  ;  now  wailing  and  lamenting  like  a  funeral 
dirge ;  and  ever  and  anon  uttering  intimations  of 
a  happy  time  to  come,  when  Israel  should  be  re 
deemed  and  comforted,  and  a  Prince  and  Saviour 
should  rise  up,  and  establish  a  sacred  kingdom  of 
righteousness,  glory,  and  peace. 

The  fortunes  of  the  Jewish  nation  go  on  un 
folding  themselves  in  mingled  colors  of  restless 
subjection  and  partial  restoration,  till  they  are 
overshadowed  by  the  Roman  sway  in  the  time  of 
the  early  Roman  empire.  And  now  it  is,  that  her 
star  of  eternal  dominion  rises,  not  red  and  baleful, 
but  serene  and  full  of  light ;  not  seen  or  acknowl 
edged  by  herself,  but  enlightening  and  healing  the 
world.  Now  it  is,  that  Bethlehem  acquires  a  lus 
tre  greater  than  even  the  birth  of  David  could 
confer  upon  it,  for  now  it  becomes  the  birth-place 
of  a  Saviour,  who  is  Christ  the  Lord.  Now  it  is, 
that  the  secluded  town  of  Nazareth,  at  the  other 
extremity  of  the  kingdom,  out  of  which  it  was  said 
that  no  good  thing  could  come,  shelters  in  one  of 
its  cottages,  and  educates  amidst  its  surrounding 
solitudes,  the  Son  of  man  and  of  God,  and,  at 
the  expiration  of  thirty  years,  sends  him  forth,  the 
Teacher  and  Redeemer  of  the  human  race.  Now 
it  is,  that  a  King  rides  meekly  into  Jerusalem, 


382  MISCELLANIES. 

who  is  greater  than  David  or  Solomon,  and  a  High 
Priest  is  seen  in  the  temple,  entering  into  the 
holy  of  holies  by  his  own  blood,  and  obtaining 
not  an  annual,  but  eternal  redemption. 

The  essential  features  of  that  land  are  un 
changed,  through  which  Jesus  travelled  on  his 
divine  mission,  marking  his  way  with  miracles  of 
power,  of  wisdom,  and  of  love.  How  has  he  in 
vested  with  more  than  double  sanctity,  every  path 
and  spot  where  patriarch  and  prophet  had  already 
travelled  and  rested  !  How  full  of  thrilling  inter 
est  is  the  country  which  everywhere  presents 
us  with  names,  in  its  towns,  its  streams,  and  its 
mountains,  with  which  his  name  is  connected  ! 
Are  not  the  words  of  the  Prophet  now  most  per 
fectly  accomplished,  and  is  not  the  land  of  Canaan 
11  the  glory  of  all  lands  ?  "  If  we  cannot  journey 
over  it  in  the  body,  we  can  make  a  pilgrimage 
to  it  in  spirit ;  and  indeed  we  must  become  ac 
quainted  with  its  localities,  if  we  would  gain  an 
accurate  knowledge  of  the  journeys  and  works  of 
our  Lord. 

The  Holy  Land  lies  spread  before  us.  Jordan 
flows  on  as  it  did,  and  the  tall  reeds  on  its  banks 
are  shaken  by  the  wind  as  they  were,  when  John 
stood  there,  and  baptized  with  water  Him  who 
was  to  baptize  with  the  Holy  Spirit  and  with  fire. 
It  flows  out  from  the  beautiful  lake  or  sea,  on 


THE    HOLY   LAND.  383 

the  shores  of  which  he  passed  so  large  a  portion 
of  his  ministry,  and  performed  so  many  of  his 
wonderful  works.  Behold  it,  as  it  stretches  far  up 
into  Galilee,  and  glitters  in  the  sun.  Just  here, 
on  its  border,  he  selected  his  apostles.  On  its 
waves  he  has  often  been  borne  by  night  and  by 
day.  There,  out  in  its  midst,  the  angry  storm 
heard  his  voice  of  power,  and  was  hushed  ;  and 
there  he  stretched  forth  his  ready  hand  to  uphold 
his  sinking  disciple.  There  are  the  silent  hills 
where  he  was  wont  to  pray  alone.  Among  these 
villages  did  he  pursue  his  way,  clad  in  the  folded 
robes  of  the  East,  accompanied  by  his  disciples, 
often  thronged  by  the  people  ;  now  stopping  to 
convey  instruction  in  a  parable,  the  outward  ma 
terials  of  which  he  gathered  easily  from  the  objects 
before  him  ;  now  yielding  to  the  entreaty  of  a  fa 
ther,  whom  grief  had  made  humble,  and  speaking 
the  word  which  was  to  heal  his  child  ;  at  the  gates 
of  this  town,  restoring  to  a  widow  her  only  son 
from  his  bier  ;  by  the  side  of  this  ancient  well,  offer 
ing  to  a  Samaritan  woman  the  water  of  life.  And 
now  rise  the  towers  and  snowy  temple  of  that  city, 
within  which  he  was  so  often  heard,  but  in  vain. 
O  Jerusalem,  fallen  Jerusalem! — the  hills  and 
the  lake,  and  the  river,  are  unchanged  ;  but  how 
changed  art  thou,  since  the  days  of  thy  pride,  and 
of  his  humiliation  !  Thy  temple,  where  is  it,  ex- 


384  MISCELLANIES. 

cept  in  the  mind's  vision  ?  According  to  his  sure 
word,  it  is  utterly  ruined  !  We  see  the  dome  and 
minarets  of  a  mosque  on  mount  Moriah  !  And 
yet  thou  canst  not  lose  thy  holiness,  desolate  city, 
for  in  spirit  we  behold  within  thy  walls  the  anointed 
of  God  and  rejected  of  men.  Here,  by  his  fear 
less  rebukes,  he  sent  dismay  into  the  hearts  of  a 
perverse  generation.  Here  is  the  site  of  that  de 
secrated  judgment-hall,  in  which  he  was  con 
demned  to  a  cruel  death.  Just  without  the  walls 
to  the  east,  and  on  the  ascent  of  the  Mount  of 
Olives,  is  the  garden  where  he  passed  the  mid- 
watches  of  the  preceding  night  in  agony ;  and  on 
the  opposite  side,  to  the  west,  is  the  rising  ground, 
where,  suspended  between  thieves,  and  surround 
ed  by  the  thoughtless  crowd,  he  suffered  and  died. 
Land  of  Canaan  ;  land  of  the  Saviour  ;  land  of 
the  old  dispensation,  and  of  the  new  !  it  is  for  no 
light  cause  that  men  call  thee  Holy.  However 
we  may  question  the  wisdom,  we  may  not  wonder 
at  the  zeal,  of  that  strong  movement,  through 
which  the  chieftains  and  multitudes  of  Europe 
rushed  to  the  shores  of  Palestine,  and  expended 
their  treasure  and  their  blood  in  the  wars  of  the 
Crusades.  They  could  not  bear,  that  the  tomb  in 
which  their  Redeemer  was  laid  with  sorrow,  and 
from  which  he  arose  in  triumph,  should  be  in  the 
hands  of  infidels ;  and  therefore  without  regard  to 


THE    HOLY    LAND.  385 

consequences,  and  without  regard  to  the  peaceful 
laws  of  that  Redeemer  himself,  they  established 
through  violence  and  crime  a  nominal  and  tem 
porary  Christian  dominion  on  Mount  Sion.  Ter 
ribly  were  they  rebuked,  as  by  the  voice  of  the 
living  Saviour.  They  took  the  sword,  and  they 
perished  by  the  sword. 

More  pleasant  for  a  Christian  to  contemplate,  is 
the  use  which  Christian  poetry  has  made  of  the 
associations  which  spring  up  from  the  Land  of 
Promise,  and  the  dominion  which  Christian  affec 
tions  have  asserted  in  it.  We  have  only  to  re 
member  that  the  land  of  Abraham,  Isaac,  and  Ja 
cob  is  also  the  land  of  Christ ;  that  the  descendant 
of  David  reigns  spiritually  on  his  father's  throne 
in  Mount  Sion  ;  that  the  places,  which  were  con 
secrated  to  the  Jews  by  the  remembrance  of  the 
saints  and  prophets  of  their  dispensation,  are  re 
consecrated  to  us  by  the  steps  of  the  Mediator  of 
a  new  and  better  covenant ;  and  we  shall  under 
stand  and  feel  the  beauty  of  that  imagery  which 
Christian  poetry  and  devotion  have  borrowed  from 
that  land,  and  which  is  one  of  the  links  between 
the  Old  and  the  New.  We  shall  regard  it,  not  as 
affectation  or  cant,  but  as  easy  appropriateness, 
for  a  Christian  poet  to  sing  of  the  heavenly  Canaan 
and  the  new  Jerusalem,  when  he  lifts  up  his  heart 
from  the  present  world  to  the  country  of  the  saints 
33 


386  MISCELLANIES. 

and  the  city  of  God.  We  are  the  adopted  people 
of  God,  brought  into  his  family  by  his  Son,  and 
we  are  journeying  through  a  wilderness  compared 
with  that  land  of  promise  and  repose.  The  same 
God  who  preceded  the  Israelites  by  cloud  and  by 
pillared  fire,  conducts  us  through  its  perils,  pro 
vides  us  food,  shows  us  his  wonders,  and  gives  us 
his  law.  For  us,  there  is  at  last  a  river  to  pass,  — 
the  Jordan  of  death.  Safely  shall  they  be  con 
ducted  through  it,  who  trust  in  Him,  and  with  joy 
and  singing  shall  they  be  brought  into  the  inherit 
ance  of  his  children,  the  land  of  heavenly  abund 
ance  and  everlasting  rest. 


SPRING 


THE  name  of  the  season  in  which  the  sun  re 
turns  to  us  from  his  cold  recess,  rising  higher  and 
higher  above  our  heads,  and  bringing  warmth  and 
verdure  with  him  for  his  welcome,  is  most  expres 
sively  denominated  by  the  pure  English  word 
Spring.  For  it  is  now  that  everything  in  nature, 
to  which  life  or  motion  belongs,  the  herbs  and 
plants  and  trees,  the  fountains,  the  beasts  and  birds, 
the  reptile  and  the  insect  tribes^  are  springing  up 
from  the  bonds  of  frost,  and  stillness,  and  sleep, 
and  death.  It  is  now  that  a  fresh  impulse  seems 
to  be  communicated  to  the  whole  creation,  and  a 
spirit  of  youth  to  be  infused  throughout  all  the 
works  of  God.  Spring  is  come  ;  the  springing  of 
the  earth  ;  the  spring-time  of  the  year.  And  so 
great  and  manifest  is  the  joy  which  we  feel  at  this 
general  renovation,  and  so  vivid  the  delight  which 
appears  to  possess  even  senseless  and  material 
creatures  in  this  the  springing  and  bounding  sea 
son  of  their  existence,  that  the  blessing  of  the  Cre- 


388  MISCELLANIES. 

ator  may  be  said  to  rest  upon  it  peculiarly  ;  and 
we  are  reminded  of  the  time  when  that  blessing 
first  came  down  upon  the  springing  things  of  our 
young  world,  and  pronounced  them  good. 

It  is  only  in  the  temperate  zones  that  the  word 
Spring,  as  denoting  a  season  of  the  year,  can  have 
any  significancy.  Within  the  tropics,  and  near 
them,  Summer  holds  a  constant  and  oftentimes  an 
oppressive  sceptre.  Growth  and  vegetation  are 
indeed  perpetual,  but  they  have  no  spring,  because 
they  have  no  rest ;  they  have  no  awakening,  be 
cause  they  have  no  sleep ;  they  do  not  burst  forth 
in  the  gladness  of  an  annual  jubilee,  because  they 
have  never  been  bound  or  restrained. 

In  our  own  climate  the  signs  of  Spring  do  not 
appear  so  early  as  they  do  iasome  others.  Even 
the  month  of  May  is  not  generally  to  be  recog 
nized,  in  this  part  of  our  country,  as  the  same 
which  poetry  has  loved  to  draw  with  its  brightest 
colors.  And  yet  the  three  months  which  are  called 
the  spring  months,  deserve  their  name  here  as  truly 
as  in  any  other  part  of  the  world  ;  for  it  is  within 
their  term  that  the  real  springing  of  the  year  takes 
place.  Our  breezes  are  not  so  soft  and  balmy, 
nor  do  our  flowers  bloom  so  soon  or  so  profusely, 
as  in  some  other  climes  ;  but  the  winds  are  sensi- 
bly  changed  from  the  blasts  of  winter,  and  the 
rudiments  of  flowers  and  fruits  are  sprouting  and 


SPRING.  389 

budding  everywhere  around  us.  Our  Spring  is 
really  the  opening  and  leading  season ;  that  season 
of  preparation  and  renewed  growth  and  activity, 
which  tells  of  the  commencement  of  nature's  year, 
and  speaks  the  newly-uttered  blessing  of  nature's 
God. 

Let  us  contemplate  for  a  few  moments,  the  ani 
mated  scene  which  is  presented  by  our  Spring. 

The  earth,  loosened  by  the  victorious  sun,  springs 
from  the  hard  dominion  of  winter's  frost,  and,  no 
longer  offering  a  bound-up,  repulsive  surface  to 
the  husbandman,  invites  his  cultivating  labors. 
The  streams  are  released  from  their  icy  fetters, 
and  spring  forward  on  their  unobstructed  way, 
full  of  sparkling  waters,  which  sing  and  rejoice  as 
they  run  on.  "  The  trees  of  the  Lord  are  full  of 
sap,"  which  now  springs  up  into  their  before 
shrunk  and  empty  vessels,  causing  the  buds  to 
swell,  and  the  yet  unclothed  branches  and  twigs 
to  lose  their  rigid  appearance,  and  assume  a  fresher 
hue,  and  a  more  rounded  form.  Beneath  them, 
and  in  every  warm  and  sheltered  spot,  the  wild 
plants  are  springing.  Some  of  these  are  just  push 
ing  up  their  tender,  crisp,  and  yet  vigorous  sprouts, 
thrusting  aside  the  dead  leaves  with  their  folded 
heads,  and  finding  their  sure  way  out  into  the 
light ;  while  others  have  sent  forth  their  delicate 
foliage,  and  hung  out  their  buds  on  slender  stems ; 

33* 


390  MISCELLANIES. 

and  others  still  have  unfolded  their  flowers,  which 
look  up  into  the  air  unsuspectingly  and  gayly,  like 
innocence  upon  an  untried  world.  The  grass  is 
springing  for  the  scythe,  and  the  grain  for  the 
sickle  ;  for  they  grow,  by  commandment,  for  the 
service  of  man,  and  death  is  everywhere  the  fate 
and  issue  of  life. 

But  it  is  not  only  senseless  things,  which  are 
thus  visibly  springing  at  this  their  appointed  sea 
son.  The  various  tribes  of  animated  nature  show- 
that  it  is  Spring  also  with  them.  The  birds  rise 
up  on  elastic  wing,  and  make  a  joyous  music  for 
the  growing  plants  to  spring  to.  Animals,  that 
have  lain  torpid  through  the  benumbing  winter, 
spring  up  from  their  secret  beds  and  dormitories, 
and  resume  their  habits  of  activity  once  more. 
Innumerable  insects  spring  up  from  the  cells  which 
they  had  formed  beyond  the  reach  of  frost,  and 
in  new  attire  commence  their  winged  existence. 
The  hum  of  happy  life  is  heard  from  myriads  of 
little  creatures,  who,  born  in  the  morning,  will  die 
ere  night.  In  that  short  term,  however,  they  will 
have  accomplished  the  purposes  of  their  living  ; 
and,  if  brought  to  this  test,  there  are  many  human 
lives  which  are  shorter  and  vainer  than  theirs ;  and 
what  is  any  life,  when  past,  but  a  day  ? 

Let  us  go  abroad  amidst  this  general  springing 
of  the  earth  and  nature,  and  we  shall  see  and  feel 


SPRING.  391 

that  God's  blessing  is  there.  The  joy  of  recovery, 
the  gladness  of  escape,  the  buoyancy  of  youth,  the 
exultation  of  commencing  or  renewed  existence, 
these  are  the  happiness  and  blessing  which  are 
given  from  above,  and  the  praise  and  the  hymn 
which  ascend  from  beneath.  Another  and  a  milder 
order  of  things  seems  to  be  beginning.  The  gales, 
though  not  the  warm  breathings  of  Summer,  flow 
to  us  as  if  they  came  from  some  distant  summer 
clime,  and  were  cooled  and  moderated  on  their 
way  ;  while,  at  no  distant  intervals,  the  skies,  in 
their  genial  ministry,  baptize  the  offspring  of  earth 
with  their  softest  and  holiest  showers.  "  Thou 
visitest  the  earth  and  waterest  it ;  thou  inakest  it 
soft  with  showers  ;  thou  blessest  the  springing 
thereof." 

Surely  we  cannot  stand  still  in  such  a  scene,  and, 
when  everything  else  is  springing,  let  it  be  winter 
in  our  souls.  Let  us  rather  open  our  hearts  to  the 
renovating  influences  of  Heaven,  and  sympathize 
with  universal  nature.  If  our  love  to  God  has 
been  chilled  by  any  of  the  wintry  aspects  of  the 
world,  it  is  time,  it  is  time,  that  it  should  be  resus 
citated,  and  that  it  should  spring  up  in  ardent 
adoration  to  the  Source  of  light  and  life.  It  is 
time,  that  our  gratitude  should  be  waked  from  its 
sleep,  and  our  devotion  aroused,  and  that  all  our 
pious  affections,  shaking  off  their  torpor,  should 


392  MISCELLANIES. 

come  out  into  the  beams  of  God's  presence,  and  re 
ceive  new  powers  from  their  invigorating  warmth. 
It  is  time,  too,  that^our  social  charities,  if  any 
"killing  frost"  has  visited  them,  should  be  cured 
of  their  numbness  and  apathy,  and  go  forth  among 
the  children  and  brethren  of  the  great  family,  and 
feel,  as  they  rise  and  move,  that  the  blessing  of  the 
Almighty  Father  is  upon  their  springing. 

We  should  be  reminded,  also,  at  this  vivifying 
season,  of  that  Spring  which  succeeded  the  spirit 
ual  winter  of  the  world,  when  Jesus  Christ,  the 
Sun  of  righteousness,  burst  from  the  cold,  dark 
tomb.  The  resurrection  of  our  Saviour  took  place, 
as  we  know,  during  the  term  of  the  Jewish  feast 
of  the  Passover,  which  was  celebrated  at  this  time. 
It  was  then,  at  the  advancing  of  that  immortal 
Spring,  that  the  seeds  of  hope  and  of  life,  which 
had  slept  deep  in  the  earth,  or  been  checked  by 
the  freezing  air,  if  they  dared  to  rise  above  the 
surface,  sprang  up  greenly  and  put  forth  blossoms, 
and  promised  much  fruit.  It  was  then,  that  the 
divine  part  of  man  gathered  to  itself  increased 
force,  and  sprang  with  a  new  consciousness  of  its 
origin,  toward  its  native  skies.  It  was  then  that 
the  cold  mists  of  doubt  were  dissipated,  and  the 
frosts  of  infidelity  were  dissolved,  and  the  ice  of 
death  was  melted,  which  had  encased  and  stiffened 
the  poor  human  heart. 


SPRING.  393 

Let  us  then  enjoy  the  season  spiritually.  Let 
it  be  Spring  in  our  bosoms  ;  the  spring  of  gener 
ous  faith  which  looks  up  confidingly  to  God,  even 
as  the  flowers  do  to  the  sun  ;  of  hope  which  is 
warmed  and  animated  by  gales  from  the  heavenly 
plains ;  of  desires  and  aspirations  which  rise  up 
like  odors  into  the  holy  air.  This,  the  spiritual, 
is  the  only  eternal  Spring.  The  buds,  which  are 
filling  the  atmosphere  with  their  delicate  fragrance, 
will  presently  burst  forth  into  leaves  and  flowers  ; 
and  presently  those  flowers  and  leaves  will  fall  and 
wither.  The  seasons  move  round  obediently  in 
their  circle,  and  the  Summer  will  soon  be  here 
with  its  maturing  heat,  and  the  Autumn  with  its 
sweet  and  foreboding  melancholy,  —  and  then 
Winter  will  come  and  shut  the  scene  again.  But 
the  Spring,  which  is  produced  within  us  by  the 
influences  of  Christian  faith  and  piety,  knows  no 
such  changes  as  these.  The  Sun  which  gives  to 
it  its  light  and  warmth  never  recedes  or  sets.  It 
will  continue  to  send  forth  its  fragrant  hopes  and 
verdant  promises,  the  harbinger  of  that  Spring 
which  is  the  perpetual  climate  of  the  Eden  of  God, 


THE    END. 


121,  NEWGATE-STREET,  LONDON. 
November  IQf/i,  1840. 

LIST  OF  NEW  WORKS 

PUBLISHED  BY 

CHAPMAN,  BROTHERS, 

(LATE  JOHN  CHAPMAN,) 

Booksellers  and  Pi/ulishers;  and  Agents  for  the  Sale  of 

American  pibliratutn& 

***  CHAPMAN,  BROTHERS,  receive  Orders  for  any  Books  published  in  the 
United  States,  and  purchase  European  Books  for  Exportation. 


THE    PROSPECTIVE    REVIEW: 

A  Quarterly  Journal  of  Theology  and  Literature. 

Respice,  Aspice,  PROSPICE.— St.  Bernard. 

THE  PROSPECTIVE  REVIEW  is  devoted  to  a  free  THEOLOGY,  and  the  moral 
aspects  of  LITERATURE.  Under  the  conviction  that  lingering  influences 
from  the  doctrine  of  verbal  inspiration,  are  not  only  depriving  the  primitive 
records  of  the  Gospel  of  their  true  interpretation,  but  even  destroying  faith 
in  Christianity  itself,  the  "Work  is  conducted  in  the  confidence  that  only  a 
living  mind  and  heart,  not  in  bondage  to  any  letter,  can  receive  the  living 
spirit  of  Revelation ;  and  in  the  fervent  belief  that  for  all  such  there  is  a 
true  Gospel  of  God,  which  no  critical  or  historical  speculation  can  discredit 
or  destroy.  It  aims  to  interpret  and  represent  Spiritual  Christianity,  in  its 
character  of  the  "Universal  Religion.  Fully  adopting  the  sentiment  of  Cole 
ridge,  that  "  the  exercise  of  the  reasoning  and  reflective  powers,  increasing 
insight,  and  enlarging  news,  are  requisite  to  keep  alive  the  substantial  faith 
of  the  heart," — with  a  grateful  appreciation  of  the  labours  of  faithful  prede 
cessors  of  all  Churches,— it  esteems  it  the  part  of  a  true  reverence  not  to 
rest  in  their  conclusions,  but  to  think  and  live  in  their  spirit.  By  the  name 
"  PROSPECTIVE  REVIEW,"  it  is  intended  to  lay  no  claim  to  Discovery,  but 
simply  to  express  the  desire  and  the  attitude  of  Progress  ;  to  suggest  conti 
nually  the  Duty  of  using  Past  and  Present  as  a  trust  for  the  Future ;  and 
openly  to  disown  the  idolatrous  Conservatism,  of  whatever  sect,  which  makes 
Christianity  but  a  lifeless  formula. 


THE  PROSPECTIVE  REVIEW,  Xo.  IX., 
"Will  be  published  on  the  1st  of  February,  1 847.     Price  2*.  (M. 

%*  Works  for  Review  to  be  sent  to  the  Publishers  or  Editors:  Advertise 
ments  in  all  cases  to  the  Publishers. 


Works  published  by 


The  American  Christian  Examiner,  and  Religious  Miscellany. 

Edited  by  the  Eev.  Drs.  A.  LAMSON  and  E.  S.  GANNETT.    A  Bi-Monthly 
Magazine.    8vo.  3s.  6d. 

Shakspeare's  Dramatic  Art,  and  his  relation  to  Calderon  and 

Goethe.    Translated  from  the  German  of  Dr.  HERMANN  ULRICI.    8vo.    12s. 
cloth. 

Outline  of  Contents. 

iv.  Criticism  of  Shakspeare's  Plays. 
v.  Dramas  ascribed  to  Shakspeare  of 
doubtful  Authority. 


i.  Sketch  of  the  History  of  the  Eng 
lish  Drama  before  Shakspeare. 
— R.  Greene  and  Marlowe. 
11.  Shakspeare's  Life  and  Times. 
HI.  Shakspeare's  Dramatic  Style,  and 
Poetic  View  of  the  World  and 
Things. 

"  We  welcome  it  as  an  addition  to  our 
books  on  the  national  dramatist — ex 
haustive,  comprehensive,  and  philo 
sophical  after  a  scholastic  fashion,  and 
throwing  new  lights  upon  many  things 
in  Shakspeare." — Spectator. 

"  The  work  of  Ulrici  in  the  original, 
has  held,  ever  since  its  publication,  an 
honoured  place  upon  our  shelves.  We 
consider  it  as  being,  when  taken  all  in 
all,  one  of  the  most  valuable  contribu 
tions  ever  made  to  the  criticism  of 
Shakspeare.  The  theoretical  system 
upon  which  it  rests,  if  not  altogether 
accurate  or  completely  exhaustive,  is, 
at  all  events,  wide  and  searching ;  its 
manner  of  expression  is  almost  every 
where  clear  and  practical,  and  its 
critical  expositions  are  given  with 
equal  delicacy  of  feeling  and  liveliness 

of  fancy Here  there  are  treated, 

successively,  Shakspeare's  language, 
his  mode  of  representing  characters, 

and  his  dramatic  invention 

Our  author  has  not  only  spoken 

with  excellent  good  sense,  but  has 
placed  one  or  two  important  points  of 
Shakspeare's  poetical  character  in  a 
clearer  light  than  that  in  which  we  are 
accustomed  to  regard  them.  Shakspeare 
is  shown  to  be  the  historically-dramatic 
poet  of  enlightened  Christianity ;  and 
the  highest  value  of  his  works  consists 
in  their  adequately  representing,  in  the 
light  of  imagination,  the  Christian 
prospect  of  man's  mysterious  destiny." 
—  Tait's  Magazine. 

"  A  good  translation  of  Dr.  Ulrici's 
work  on  Shakspeare  cannot  fail  of  being 
welcome  to  the  English  thinker.  It  is, 
in  fact,  a  vindication  of  our  great  poet 
from  a  charge  which  has  lately  been 
brought  against  him  by  critics  on  both 
sides  of  the  Atlantic.  Dr.  Ulrici  boldly 
claims  for  him  the  rank  of  an  emi 
nently  Christian  author The  pre 
sent  work  is  the  least  German  of  all 


vi.  Calderon  and  Goethe  in  their  rela 
tion  to  Shakspeare. 


German  books,  and  contains  remark 
able  novelty  in  its  views  of  the  subject 
and  the  arrangement  of  its  topics.  The 
plan  adopted  by  Dr.  Ulrici  of  contem 
plating  each  play  in  the  light  of  a 
central  idea  is  especially  deserving  of 
all  praise ....  We  recommend  the  entire 
criticism  to  the  perusal  of  the  judicious 
reader." — Athenceum. 

"  We  welcome  this  work  as  a  valu 
able  accession  to  Shaksperian  litera 
ture.  It  is  the  principal  object  of  Dr. 
Ulrici's  criticisms  of  the  several  plays, 
to  trace  and  bring  to  light  the  funda 
mental  and  vivifying  idea  of  each.  In 
this  difficult  task  we  think  he  has 
been  eminently  successful We  can 
not  dismiss  this  very  valuable  work, 
which  breathes  a  tone  of  pure  and  ex 
alted  morality,  derived  from  a  mind 
truly  religious,  and  whose  holy  and 
chastening  influence  expresses  itself 
throughout,  without  remarking  how 
much  we  admire  the  excellent  manner 
in  which  it  is  translated."— Inquirer. 

"  Excellencies  of  a  higli  order  per 
vade  this  performance,  which,  in  our 
judgment,  entitle  it  to  the  grateful  re 
ception  of  all  who  are  desirous  of  be 
coming  better  acquainted  with  the 

mind  of  Shakspeare The  sketch 

of  the  modern  dramatic  art  with  which 
the  book  opens,  as  well  as  of  the  life  of 
Shakspeare,  is  well  drawn  ;  indeed,  the 
historical  sketches  throughout  are  ad 
mirably  executed "The  author's 

views  are  ingenious,  and  the  criticisms 
on  the  several  dramas  are  admirable, 
and  will  fully  repay  the  reader's  study." 
— No  n  con  formist. 

"Ulrici's  Admirable  '  Shakspeare's 
Dramatic  Art'  has  been  lately  trans 
lated  with  considerable  skill.  We  re 
commend  the  work  as  an  addition  to 
our  higher  critical  literature,  and  we 
should  like  to  recur  to  it  more  fully." — 
L7i  ristian  Remembrancer. 


The  Life  of  Jesus,  Critically  Examined. 

By  Dr.  DAVID  FRIEDRICH  STRAUSS.    3  vols.  8vo.  £1  IGs.  cloth, 
"  Whoever  reads  these  volumes  with-     be  pleased  with  the  easy,  perspicuous, 
out  any  reference  to  the  German,  must     idiomatic,  and  harmonious  force  of  the 


.tan,  Brothers,  121,  Net? gate-street. 


English  style.  But  he  will  be  still  more 
satisfied  when,  on  turning  to  the  origi 
nal,  lie  Muds  that  the  rendering  is  word 
for  word,  thought  for  thought,  and  sen 
tence  for  sentence.  The  style  of 
B,  indeed,  unlike  that  of  many  of 
the  German  theological  writers,  is,  for 
the  most  part,  clear,  simple,  and  unin- 
volved,  and  in  so  far  it  is  favourable  to 
the  labours  of  the  translator.  But  in 
preparing  so  beautiful  a  rendering  as 
the  present,  the  difficulties  can  have 
been  neither  few  nor  small  in  the  way 
of  preserving,  in  various  parts  of  the 
work,  the  exactness  of  the  translation, 
combined  with  that  uniform  harmony 
and  clearness  of  style,  which  impart  to 
the  volumes  before  us  the  air  and  spirit 
of  an  original.  Though  the  translator 
never  obtrudes  himself  upon  the  reader 
with  any  notes  or  comments  of  his  own, 
yet  he  is  evidently  a  man  who  has  a 
familiar  knowledge  of  the  whole  sub 
ject  :  and  if  the  work  be  the  joint  pro 
duction  of  several  hands,  moving  in 
concert,  the  passages  of  a  specially 
scholastic  character,  at  least,  have  re 
ceived  their  version  from  a  discerning 
and  well-informed  theologian.  A  mo 
dest  and  kindly  care  for  his  reader's 
convenience  lias  induced  the  translator 
often  to  supply  the  rendering  into  Eng 
lish  of  a  Greek  quotation,  where  there 
was  no  corresponding  rendering  into 
German  in  the  original.  Indeed, 
Strauss  may  well  sav,  as  lie  does  in  the 
notice,  which  he  writes  for  this  English 
edition,  that  as  far  as  he  has  examined 
it.  the  translation  is,  "  et  accurata  et 
perspicua.'  " — Prospective  7, 

"  In  regard  to  learning,  acuteness,  and 
sagacious  conjectures,  the  work  resem 
bles  Xiebulir's  '  History  of  Rome.'  The 


general  manner  of  treating  the  subject 
and  arranging  the  chapters,  sections, 
and  parts  of  the  argument,  indicates 
consummate  dialectical  skill :  while  the 
style  is  clear,  the  expression  direct,  and 
the  author's  openness  in  referring  to  his 
sources  of  information,  and  stating  his 
conclusions  in  all  their  simplicit**,  is 

candid  and  exemplary It  not  only 

surpasses  all  its  predecessors  of  its  kind 
in  learning,  acuteness,  and  thorough 
investigation,  but  it  is  marked  by"  a 
serious  and  earnest  spirit." — Christian 
Examiner. 

"The  position  which  the  Historical 
Scriptures  occupy  in  Shv.uss's  system 
does  not  seem  to  have  attracted  suffi 
cient  attention  among  ourselves.  It 
addresses  itself,  as  will  have  been 
already  observed,  to  a  higher  element 
in  the  mind  than  the  common  reluct 
ance  to  acquiesce  in  supernatural  narra 
tives  There  is  not  an  objection,  a 

cavil,  or  rational  solution  which  is  not 
instantly  fused  and  incorporated  into 
his  system.'1 — Chrixtiati  lh-membranci-r. 

"A  work  which  is  acknowledged,  on 
all  sides,  to  be  a  master-piece  of  its 
kind,  to  evince  signs  of  profound  and 
varied  learning,  and  to  be  written  in  a 
spirit  of  serious  earnestness." 
minster  Seriew. 

"  I  found  in  M.  Strauss  a  young  man 
full  of  candour,  gentleness,  and  modesty 
—one  possessed  of  a  soul  that  was  al 
most  mysterious,  and,  as  it  were,  sad 
dened  by  the  reputation  lie  had  gained. 
He  scarcely  seems  to  be  the  author  of 
the  work:  under  consideration." — Quhict, 
Kecne  des  Mondes. 

"  Strauss  is  too  candid  to  be  popular." 
—  J'oices  of  the  Church,  by  the  Rev.  J.  R. 
Beard,  D'.D. 


Lircrmore's  Commentary  on  the  Four  Gospels. 

>vo.  4s.  Gd.  cloth. 

A  >ew  Translation  of  the   Proyerbs,   Ecclesiastes,   and  the 

Canticles  ;  with  Introductions  and  Xotes,  chiefly  Explanatory.    By  G.  K. 
XOYES,  D.  D.  12mo.  8s.  cloth. 

De  Uette's  Introduction  to  the  Canonical  Scriptures  of  the  Old 

Testament.    Translated  by  THEODORE  PARKER.    2  vols.  Svo.  £1.  4s.  cloth. 

A  Disconrse,of  flatters  pertaining  to  Religion. 

By  THEODORE  PARKER.    Post  Svo.  7s.  cloth. 


CONTENTS  : 


Book  1.— Of  Religion  in  General;   or, 

a  Discourse  of  the  Sentiment  and  its 

Manifestations. 
Book  2.— The  Relation  of  the  Religious 

Sentiment  to  God;  or,  a  Discourse 

of  Inspiration. 
Book  3.— The  Relation  of  the  Religious 

Sentiment  to  Jesus  of  Xazareth ;  or, 

a  Discourse  of  Christianity. 


Book  4.— The  Relation  of  the  Religious 
Sentiment  to  the  Greatest  of  Books  ; 
or,  a  Discourse  of  the  Bible. 

Book  5.— The  Relation  of  the  Religiofs 
Sentiment  to  the  Greatest  of  Human 
Institutions ;  or,  a  Discourse  of  the 
Church. 


J^orks  published  by 


"  There  is  a  mastery  shown  over 
every  element  of  the  Great  Subject, 
and  the  slight  treatment  of  it  in  parts 
no  reader  can  help  attributing  to  the 
plan  of  the  work,  rather  than  to  the 
incapacity  of  the  author.  From  the 
resources  of  a  mind  singularly  exube 
rant  by  nature  and  laboriously  enriched 
by  culture,  a  system  of  results  is  here 
thrown  up,  and  spread  out  in  luminous 
exposition." — Prospective  Review. 

"  Mr.  Parker  is  no  ephemeral  teacher. 

His  aspirations  for  the  future 

are  not  less  glowing  than  his  estimate 
for  the  past.  He  revels  in  warm  anti 
cipations  of  the  orient  splendours,  of 
which  all  past  systems  are  but  the  pre 
cursors His  language  is  neither 

narrow  nor  unattractive  ;    there  is  a  j 
consistency  and  boldness  about  it  which  j 
will  strike  upon  chords  which,  when  [ 
they  do   vibrate,  will  make  the  ears 
more  than  tingle.     We  are  living  in 
an  age  which  deals  in  broad  and  ex 
haustive   theories  ;    which    requires    a 
system  that  will  account  for  everything, 
and   assigns   to   every   fact   a   place, 


and  that  no  forced  one,  in  the  vast 
economy  of  things.  Whatever  defects 
Mr.  Parker's  view  may  have,  it  meets 
these  requisites.  It  is  large  enough, 
and  promising  enough  ;  it  is  not  afraid 
1  of  history.  It  puts  forth  claims ;  it  is 
an  articulately  speaking  voice.  It  deals 
neither  in  compromise  nor  abatement. 
It  demands  a  hearing ;  it  speaks  with 
authority.  It  lias  a  complete  and  de 
termined  aspect.  It  is  deJicieut  neither 
in  candour  nor  promises ;  and  what- 
ever  comes  forward  in  this  way  will 
certainly  find  hearers." — Christian  Re 
membrancer. 

one  to  read 
'arker  with 
out  being  strongly  impressed  by  them. 
They  abound  in  passages  of  fervid  elo 
quence — eloquence  as  remarkable  for 
the  truth  of  feeling  which  directs  it,  as 
for  the  genius  by  which  it  is  inspired. 
They  are  distinguished  by  philosophical 
thought  and  learned  investigation,  no 
less  than  by  the  sensibility  to  beauty 
and  goodness  which  they  manifest." — 
Christian  Reformer. 


"  It  is  impossible  for  any  ( 
the  writings  of  Theodore  Pa 


A  Retrospect  of  the  Religious  Life  of  England ; 

Or,  the  Church,  Puritanism,  and  Free  Inquiry.    By  JOHN  JAMES  TAYLER, 
B.A.    Post  8vo.  10s   6d.  cloth. 


"  The  work  is  written  in  a  chastely 
beautiful  style,  manifests  extensive 
reading, and  careful  research;  is  full 
of  thought,  and  decidedly  original  in 
its  character.  It  is  marked  also  by  ! 
the  modesty  which  usually  characterises 
true  merit." — Inquirer. 

"Mr.  Tayler  is  actuated  by  no  sec 
tarian  bias,  and  we  heartily  thank  him 
for  this  addition  to  our  religious  litera 
ture." —  Westminster  Review. 

"It  is  not  often  our  good  fortune  to 
meet  with  a  book  so  well  conceived, 
so  well  written,  and  so  instructive  as 
this.  The  various  phases  of  the  national 
mind,  described  with  the  clearness  and 
force  of  Mr.Tayler,furnish  an  inexhaust 
ible  material  for  reflection.  Mr.  Tayler 
regards  all partiesinturnfroman equita 
ble  point  of  view,  is  tolerant  towards  in-  • 
tolerance,  and  admires  zeal  and  excuses  ; 

Human  Nature  : 


fanaticism,  wherever  he  sees  honesty. 
Nay,  he  openly  asserts  that  the  religion 
of  mere  reason  is  not  the  religion  to 
produce  a  practical  effect  on  a  people  ; 
and  therefore  regards  his  own  class 
only  as  one  element  in  a  better  possible 
church.  The  clear  and  comprehen 
sive  grasp  with  which  lie  marshals  his 
facts,  is  even  less  admirable  than  the 
impartiality,  nay,  more  than  that,  the 
general  kindliness  with  which  he  re 
flects  upon  them." — Examiner. 

"  The  writer  of  this  volume  has 
all  the  calmness  belonging  to  one  who 
feels  himself  not  mixed  up  with  the 
struggle  he  describes.  There  is  about 
it  a  tone  of  great  moderation  and  can 
dour  :  and  we  cannot  but  feel  confident 
that  we  have  here,  at  least,  the  product 
of  a  thoroughly  honest  mind." — Lowe's 
Edinburgh  Magazine. 


A  Philosophical  Exposition  of  the  Divine  Institution  of  Eeward  and 
Punishment,  which  obtains  in  the  Physical,  Intellectual,  and  Moral  Consti 
tutions  of  Man.  12mo.  2s.  6d.  cloth. 


"  It  is  refreshing  toll 
which  has  so  much  orfginafity  of  con 
ception  as  this,  and  in  which  the  writer 
is  bold  enough  to  have  an  opinion  of 
his  own."—  Critic. 

"  The  introduction  is  especially  re 
markable  for  its  power — not  only  power 
of  words,  but  of  ideas." — Spectator. 

"  This  little  volume  well  deserves  a 
thoughtful  perusal,  which  it  will  re 


ward  with  much  of  truth  and  much  of 
beauty,  though  not  unmingled,  we 
must  think,  with  obscurity  and  error." — 
Inquirer. 

"  The  Essay  we  have  been  reviewing, 
concludes  in  an  eloquent  on-looking 
strain  of  thought,  which  forms  a  fit  se 
quel  to  the  interesting  views  the  author 
has  previously  developed."—  Christian 
Teacher. 


Chaptiian,  Brothers,  121,  Newgate-street. 


Channinsfs  Works,  Complete. 

Edited  by  JOSEPH  BARKER.    In  6  vols.  12mo.  6s.  sewed;  8s.  cloth. 

"  Channing's  function  was  rather  that  |  folded  up  in  every  human  breast, — that 

of  the  prophet  than  that  of  the  scholar  he  has  called  out  a  wide  responsive 

and  philosopher;    his  scattered  pieces  sympathy,  and  made  thousands  receive 

have  gone  out  into  the  world  like  so  '  through  the  kindling  medium  of  his 


many  oracles  of  religious  wisdom ;  he 
uttered  forth  in  tones  of  such  deep 
conviction  and  thrilling  persuasiveness, 


affectionate  spirit,  a  fresh  communica 
tion  of  religious  life."— Retrospect  of  the 
Religious  Life  of  England,  by  John  James 


„,. ,  .  —  .,0         Life 

sentiments  and  aspirations  which  lie  I  Tayler,  B.A. 

Channing's  Works,  Complete.     (Heddenvick's  Edition,) 

6  vols.  post  8vo.  reduced  to  £\.  Is.  cloth. 

Endeavours  after  the  Christian  Life. 

A  Volume  of  Discourses.    By  JAMES  MARTINEAC.    12mo.  8s.  6d.  cloth. 

The  Bible  and  the  Child. 

A  Discourse  on  Religious  Education.    By  JAMES  MARTINEAU.    I2mo.  Is. 

Hymns  for  the  Christian  Chnrch  and  Home. 

Edited  by  JAMES  MARTINEAU.    Fifth  Edition,  12mo.  3s.  Gd.  cloth. 

The  Education  of  Taste. 

A  Series  of  Lectures.    By  WTT.T.TAM  MACCALL.     12mo.  2s.  6d. 
CONTENTS : 

1.  Introductory.  2.  The  Nature  of  Taste.  3.  The  Culture  of  Taste.  4.  Taste 
and  Religion.  5.  Taste  and  Morality.  6.  Taste  and  Politics.  7.  Taste  and 
Manners.  8.  Concluding  Remarks. 

The  Agents  of  Civilization. 

A  Series  of  Lectures.    By  WILLIAM  MACCALL.    I2mo.  3s.  6d.  cloth. 

CONTENTS. 

1.  Introductory.  2.  The  Hero.  3.  The  Poet.  4.  The  Priest.  5.  The  Artist. 
6.  The  Prophet.  7.  The  Philosopher.  8.  The  Apostle.  9.  The  Martyr.  10. 
Concluding  Remarks. 


Lectures  to  Young  Men. 


On  the  Cultivation  of  the  Mind,  the  Formation  of  Character,  and  the  Con 
duct  of  Life.    By  GEORGE  W.  BURXAP.    Royal  8vo.  9d. 


"  This,  we  can  foresee,  is  destined  to 
become  a  household  book,  and  it  is  a 
long  time  since  we  met  with  any  work 
better  deserving  of  such  distinction. 


"We  do  not  know  of  any  work  on  the 
same  subject  of  equal  excellence,  and 
those  of  our  readers  who  are  wise  will 
buy  and  study  it."—  The  Apprentice. 


Lectures  to  Young  Men. 

On  their  Moral  Dangers  and  Duties.    By  ABIEL  ABBOT  LIVERMORE.  12mo. 
cloth,  price  3s. 

Critical  and  Miscellaneous  Essays. 

By  THEODORE  PARKER,    12mo.  7s.  6d.  cloth. 

Ware's  Inquiry  into  the  Foundation,  Evidences,  and  Truths  of 

Religion.    2  vols,  12mo.  12s.  cloth. 


Works  published  ly 


Ware's  Life  of  the  Saviour. 

32rao.  2s.  cloth. 

Ware's  Formation  of  Christian  Character. 

32mo.  Is.  6d.  cloth. 

Illustrations  of  the  Law  of  Kindness. 

By  the  Rev.  G.  W.  MONTGOMERY.    I2mo;  is. 

An  Inquiry  concerning  the  Origin  of  Christianity. 

By  CHARLES  C.  HENNELL.    Second  Edition,  8vo.  12s.  cloth. 

Christian  Theism. 

By  the  Author  of  "An  Inquiry  concerning  the  Origin  of  Christianity."    8vo. 
2s.  Gd.  cloth. 

The  Complete  Works  of  the  Rev.  Orville  Dewey,  D.D. 

8vo.  7s.  Gd.  cloth. 

The  Life  of  the  Rev.  Joseph  Blanco  White. 

Written  by  Himself.     "With  Portions  of  his  Correspondence.     Edited  by 
JOHN  HAMILTON  THOM.    3  vols.  post  8vo.  ,£1  4s.  cloth. 

This  is  a  book  which  rivets  the  at-     the  peculiar  construction  of  his  mind, 

in  its  close  union  of  the  moral  with  the 


tentipn,  and  makes  the  heart  bleed.  It 
has,  indeed,  with  regard  to  himself,  in 
its  substance,  though  not  in  its  ar 
rangement,  an  almost  dramatic  cha 
racter  ;  so  clearly  and  strongly  is  the 
living,  thinking,  active  man  projected 
from  the  face  of  the  records  which  he 
has  left. 

"  His  spirit  was  a  battle-field,  upon 
which,  with  fluctuating  fortune  and  sin 
gular  intensity,  the  powers  of  belief  and 
scepticism  waged,  from  first  to  last,  their 
unceasing  war ;  and  within  the  com 
pass  of  his  experience  are  presented  to 
our  view  most  of  the  great  moral  and 
spiritual  problems  that  attach  to  the 
condition  of  our  race." — Quarterly  Rev. 

"  This  book  will  improve  his  (Blanco 
White's)  reputation.  There  is  much  in 


intellectual  faculties,  and  in  its  restless 
desire  for  truth,  which  may  remind  the 
reader  of  Doctor  Arnold." — Examiner. 

"  There  is  a  depth  and  force  in  this 
book  which  tells."—  Christian  Remem 
brance)'. 

"  These  volumes  have  an  interest 
beyond  the  character  of  Blanco  White. 
And  beside  the  intrinsic  interest  of  his 
self-portraiture,  whose  character  is  indi 
cated  in  some  of  our  extracts,  the  corre- 
spondence,intheletters  of  Lord  Holland, 
Southey,  Coleridge,  Channing,  Xorton, 
Mill,  Professor  Powell,  Dr.  Hawkins, 
and  other  names  of  celebrity,  has  con 
siderable  attractions  in  itself,  without 
any  relation  to  the  biographical  purpose 
with  which  itwas  published." — Spectator. 


The  Works  of  Joseph  Stevens  Buckminster : 

With  Memoirs  of  his  Life.    2  vols.  Post  8vo.  £\.  cloth. 

The  Collected  Works  of  Henry  Ware,  Jun.,  D.D. 

Vols.  1  and  2,  Post  8vo.  price  7s,  per  volume,  cloth. 

***  The  works  will  be  completed  in  four  volumes. 

A  Memoir  of  the  Life  of  Henry  Ware,  Jun. 

By  his  Brother,  JOHN  WARE,  M.D.    With  two  Portraits,  2  vols.,  post  8vo. 
10s.  cloth. 


;  In  his  own  country  he  was  better 
understood  than  Channing,  and  it  is 
said  in  this  biography,  not  in  so  many 
words,  but  by  implication,  that  his  per 
sonal  influence  was  greater ;  whilst,  in 
this  country,  with  multitudes  who  never 
saw  him,  and  who  have  but  a  very 


general  knowledge  of  his  writings,  his 
name  has  long  been  associated  with 
the  image  of  whatever  is  pure,  gentle, 
devoted,  affectionate,  constraining,  and 
persuasive  in  a  minister  of  Christ."— 
Prospective  Review. 


C/iGj)i/ia/i,  Brothers,  121,  Newgak-9trcct. 


Life  of  Charles  Follen. 

By  3Irs.  FOLLEN.    I2mo.  6s.  6d.  cloth. 

We  frankly  confess  we  were   not  j  charm  and  constitutes  the  atmosphere 


of  this  book."— American  Christian  Exa 
miner. 


prepared,  from  what  we  knew  of  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  author,  for  the  tone 
of  subdued  affection  which  makes  the 

Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  the  Rev,  Laiit  Carpenter,  L.L.D.  5 

"With   Selections  from  his  Correspondence.    Edited  by  his  Son,  RUSSELL 
LAST  CARPENTER,  B.  A.    With  a  portrait.    Svo.  12s.  cloth. 

i  The  Autobiography  ami  Justification  of  J.  Rouge. 

Translated  from  the  German,  Fifth   Edition,   by  J.  LORD,  A.M.     Fcp. 
Svo.  Is. 

"  A  plain,  straishtforward,  and  manly  I  career  of  this  remarkable  man." 
statement  of  facts  connected  with  the  j  minster  Reciew. 

Lather  Retired. 

Or,  a  Short  Account  of  Johannes  Konge,  the  Bold  Befonner  of  the  Catholic 
Church  in  Germany.    By  A.  ANDRESES.    Svo.  Is. 

The  German  Schism  and  the  Irish  Priests. 

Being  a  Critique  of  Laing's  Notes  on  the  Schism  in  the  German-Catholic 
Church.    By  E.  W.  GREG.    12mo.  6d. 

'Selections  from  the  Writings  of  Fenelon. 

With  a  Memoir  of  his  Life.    By  Mrs.  FOLLEN.    12mo.  5s.  cloth. 

Historical  Sketches  of  the  Old  Painters. 

By  the  Author  of  the  "  Log  Cabin."    2s.  6d.  paper  cover ;  3s.  cloth. 

"  That  large  class  of  readers  who  are  I  they  may  have  known  little  else  than 

not  accustomed  to  refer  to  the  original  |  the  names,  and  who  are  daily  becoming 

sources  of  information,  will  find  in  it  more  the  subjects  of  our  curiosity  and 

interesting  notices  of  men  of  whom  |  admiration." — Christian  Examiner. 

The  Log  Cabin  5  or  the  World  before  Yon. 

By  the  Author  of  "  Three  Experiments  of  Living,"  "  Sketches  of  the  Old 
Painters."  &c.  Is.  6d.  paper  cover ;  2s.  cloth  ;  2s.  6d.  extra  cloth,  gilt  edges. 

Reduced  to  Is.  6d. 
Stories  for  Sunday  Afternoons. 

From  the  Creation  to  the  Advent  of  the  Messiah.    For  the  use  of  Children 
from  5  to  11  years  of  age.    By  SUSAN  FANNY  CROMPTON.     IGmo.  cloth. 


"  This  is  a  very  pleasing  little  volume, 
which  we  can  confidently  recommend. 
It  is  designed  and  admirably  adapted 
for  the  use  of  children  from  five  to 


could  be  reading  to  yourselves,  instead 
of  listening  to  me.  But  you  have  often 
said,  that  the  books  which  tell  of  the 
real  people  who  lived  long,  long  ago, 


eleven  years  of  age.    It  purposes  to  j  and  were  called  Jews,  and  who  once  ! 
infuse  into  that  tender  age  some  ac-  |  had  the  land  where  Jesus  Christ  was 
quaiutauce  with  the  facts,   and  taste  |  born,  had  such  long  puzzling  words  in  > 
for  the  study  of  the  Old  Testament,     them,  that   you  could   not   read  fast 
The  style  is  simple,  easy,  and  for  the     enough  to  enjoy  the  story.    Xow  here 
most   part   correct.     The   stories   are     are  the  stories  I  have  told  you,  and  a 
told  hi  a  spirited  and  graphic  manner,     great  many  more.' 
4  You  have  often  asked  me,'  says  the        "  Those  who  are  engaged  in  teaching 
authoress.    Miss    Crompton,     in    the  I  the  young,  and  in  laying  the  founda- 
pleasing  introductory   address   to  her     tion  of  good  character  by  early  reli- 
dear  nephews  and  nieces,  '  to  tell  you  ,  gious  and  moral  impressions,  will  be 
stories  on  Sunday  afternoons,    about  :  thankful  for  additional  resources  of  a 
real  people.    Sometimes  I  have  wanted  |  kind  so  judicious    as   this  volume."— 
to  read  my  own  books  at  those  pleasant     Inquirer. 
quiet  times ;  and  have  wished  that  you  j 


orks  published  by 


Scenes  and  Characters,  illustrating  Christian  Truth. 

Edited  by  the  Rev.  II.  WARE.    2  vols.  18mo.  cloth.    Reduced  to  5s. 

latins  and  Vespers  5 


With   Hymns,  and  Occasional  Devotional  Pieces, 
Third  Edition,  18mo.  cloth,  reduced  to  2s.  6d. 


By  JOHN  BOOKING. 


"  This  book  is  a  little  gem  in  its  way. 
Of  the  beautiful  devotional  poetry  it 
contains  we  need  not  speak ;  it  is 
familiar  to  the  lips  and  to  the  hearts  of 
multitudes.  There  is  a  peculiar  sweet 


ness  and  charm  in  many  of  the  pieces 
which  compose  the  volume  that  must 
lead  a  person  who  has  once  looked  into 
it  to  wish  again  and  again  to  recur  to 
it." — Christian  Examiner. 


Sketches  of  Married  Life. 

I          By  Mrs.  FOLLEN.    Royal  8vo.  Is.  4d. 

Christianity :  the  Deliverance  of  the  Soul,  and  its  Life. 

By  WILLIAM  MOUNTTORD,  M.A.    Fcp  8vo,  cloth ;  2s., 

Martyria :  a  Legend. 

Wherein  are  contained  Homilies,  Conversations,  and  Incidents  of  the  Reign 
of  Edward  the  Sixth.  Written  by  WILLIAM  MOUNTFORD,  Clerk.  Fcp.  fevo. 
cloth;  Gs. 

The  Sick  Chamber :  a  Manual  for  Nurses. 

18mo.  Is.  cloth. 

"  A  small  but  sensible  and  useful  and  precautions  which  the  chamber  of 
treatise,  which  might  be  fittingly  en-  an  invalid  requires,  but  which  even 
titled  the  Sick  Room  Manual.  It  is  a  quick-sighted  affection  does  not  always 
brief  outline  of  the  necessary  cares  [  divine." — Alias. 


Consolatory  views  of  Death. 


Addressed  to  a  Friend  under  Bereavement.    To  which  fire  added,  Some 
Prayers  in  Affliction.    By  HENRY  COLMAN.    Fcp.  8vo.  Is.  Gd.  cloth. 


What  is  Religion] 


The  Question  Stated. 

By  HENRY  COLMAN.    Fcp  8vo  ;  Is.  Gd.  cloth. 


Two  Orations  against  taking 


away  Human  Life,  under  any 

Circumstances  ;  and  in  explanation  and  defence  of  the  misrepresented  doc 
trine  of  Non-resistance.  By  THOMAS  COOPER,  Author  of  "  The  Purgatory 
of  Suicides."  Post  8vo.  Is.  in  paper  cover. 


Post  8vo.  Is.  in  pape 

"  Mr.    Cooper   possesses    undeniable 
abilities  of  no  mean  order,  and  moral 
courage  beyond  many  ........  The  man 

liness  with  which  he  avows,  and  the 
boldness  and  zeal  with  which  he  urges, 
the  doctrines  of  peace  and  love,  respect 
for  human  rights,  and  moral  power, 
in  these  lecture?,  are  worthy  of  all 
honour."  —  Nonconformist, 

"  Mr.  Cooper's  style  is  intensely  clear 
and  forcible,  and  displays  great 
earnestness  and  fine  human  sympathy; 
it  is  in  the  highest  degree  manly,  plain, 
and  vigorous."  —  Morning  Advertiser. 

"  Much  pleasure  as  we  have  had  in 
commending  to  our  readers  the  former 
works  of  Thomas  Cooper,  we  have 
never  entered  upon  the  agreeable  duty 
of  reviewing  any  production  of  his 


thoughtful  and  energetic  mind  with 
such  a  fulness  of  satisfaction — such  a 
glowing  of  enthusiasm,  as  fills  our 
bosom  and  warms  our  heart  on  the 
present  occasion.  We  can  now  hail 
him  as  a  brother  indeed,  a  co-worker  in 
the  good  cause  of  peace  and  good  will." 
— Kentish  Independent. 

"  These  two  orations  are  thoroughly 
imbued  with  the  peace  doctrines  which 
have  lately  been  making  rapid  progress 
in  many  unexpected  quarters.  To  all 
who  take  an  interest  in  that  great 
movement,  we  would  recommend  this 
book,  on  account  of  the  fervid  elo 
quence  and  earnest  truthfulness  which 
pervades  every  line  of  it." — Manchester 
Examiner, 


Chapman,  Brothers,  121, 


Treatise  on  (irammatiral  Punctuation, 

By  JOHN  WILSON.     !2mo.  2s.  6d.  cloth. 

A  Kiss  for  a  Blow, 

A  Collection  of  Stories  to  dissuade  Children  from  Quarrelling.    18mo.  Is  Gd. 
cloth. 

An  Offering  of  Sympathy  to  the  Afflicted :  especially  to  Parents 

Bereaved  of  their  Children.  By  FRANCIS  PARKMAN,  D.D.  18mo.  2s.  6d. 
cloth. 

The  Truth  Seeker  in  Literature,  Philosophy,  and  Religion, 

Devoted  to  free  and  Catholic  enquirv,  and  to  the  Transcendental  and  Spiri 
tual  Philosophy  of  the  Age. 

Published  every  alternate  Month,  price  8d.  per  Number, 

Just  published,  STO,  price  6d. 

The  Eyangelical  Alliance  :  a  Letter  to  the  RCT,  Thomas  Binney. 

By  an  UNSECTARIAN  CHRISTIAN. 

Letters  Addressed  to  Relatiyes  and  Friends,  chiefly  in  reply  to 

Arguments  in  support  of  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity.  By  Mary  S.  B.  DANA. 
Post  svo.  5s.  6d.  cloth. 

A  Practical  Treatise  on  Ventilation. 

By  MoRRtLL  TV  YUAN.    12mo.  (wood  cuts) ;  pp.  420.    10s.  6d.  cloth. 

Critical  Essays, 

On  a  few  subjects  connected  •with  the  History  and  Present  Condition  of 
Speculative  Philosophy.  By  FRANCIS  Bo  WEN,  A.M.  12mo.  cloth;  pp. 

332.    Ss. 

Domestic  Worship, 

By  W.  H.  FURNESS.    12mo.  cloth ;  7s.  6d. 

The  Acts  of  the  Apostles,  with  a  Commentary. 

By  A.  A.  LIVZRMORE.    I2mo.  cloth  ;  Ts. 

A  New  Translation  of  the  Book  of  Joh, 

With  an  Introduction  and  Xotes,  chiefly  Explanatory.  By  G.  R.  XOTES. 
12mo.  cloth ;  8s. 

Expository  Lectures. 

On  the  Principal  Pas* 

the  Trinity.    By  G.  W.  BURNAP.    12mo.  cloth;  6s. 

A  Series  of  Questions,  intended  for  the  I'se  of  Young  Persons, 

As  a  Guide  to  the  Study  of  the  Four  Gospels,  on  the  plan  of  a  Harmony ; 
adapted  also  for  the  Use  of  Schools.  By  Rev.  TV.  FIELD.  12nio,  cloth; 
2s.  6d. 

lemoir  of  Henry  Augustus  Installs, 

With  Selections  from  his  Writings.  By  G.  W.  BURNAP.  12mo.  cloth ;  4s.  6d. 

lemoirs  of  the  Key.  >oah  Worcester,  D.D. 

By  the  Rev.  HENRY  WARE,  Jun.,  D.D.    12mo.  cloth ;  5s. 


On  the  Principal  Passages  of  the  Scriptures,  which  relate  to  the  Doctrine  of 
By  G. 


10 


published 


Lives  of  the  Twelve  Apostles. 


To  which  is  prefixed  a  Life  of  John  the  Baptist.    By  F.  W.  P.  GREENWOOD. 
D.D.     12mo.  Cloth;  4s.  Gd. 


With  a  Portrait.    2  vols.  12mo- 


Sermons. 

By  the  Rev.  F.  W.  P.  GREENWOOD,  D.D. 

cloth;    16s. 

The  Miscellaneous  Writings  of  F.  W.  P.  Greenwood,  D.D. 


Post  8vo,  cloth ;   7s. 


CONTENTS. 


Journal  kept  in  England  in  1820-21.  Essays  :— The  Village  Graveyard— Eter 
nity  of  God— Milton's  Prose  Works— The  Sea— Female  Literature— Moral  Edu 
cation—Religion  of  the  Sea— Falls  of  the  Niagara— Spirit  cf  Reform— Study  of 
Natural  History— Duties  of  Winter— The  Holy  Land— Spring. 

The  Dramas  of  Iphigenia  in  Tanris.  and  Torquato  Tasso,  of 

GOETHE;  and  the  MAID  OF  ORLEANS,  of  SCHILLER.  Translated, 
(omitting  some  passages,)  with  Introductory  Remarks,  by  ANNA  SWANWICK. 
8vo,  cloth;  Gs. 

"  It  is  seldom  that  we  meet  with  a 
translator  so  competent  as  the  lady 
who  has  here  rendered  these  selections 
from  the  two  great  poets  of  Germany 
into  elegant  and  vigorous  English  verse. 
The  'Iphigenia'  of  Goethe  has  been 
already  well  clone  by  Mr.  William  Tay 
lor,  of  Norwich  ;  but  his  version  is  not, 
by  many  degrees,  so  readable  as  the 
one  before  us." — Athenaeum. 

"  We  have  to  congratulate  the  trans 
lator  on  perfect  success  in  a  very  diffi 
cult  task." — Dublin  University  Magazine. 

"  The  translator  has  gone  to  her 
beautiful  task  in  the  right  spirit,  ad 
hering  with  fidelity  to  the  words  of  the 
original,  and  evidently  penetrating  the 
mind  of  the  poet.  The  translations 

Preparing  for  Publication. 

The  Striving  of  Nature  after  Harmony. 

By  MULDER,  of  Utrecht.  With  a  Preface,  Notes,  and  Dissertations,  by 
PROFESSOR  NICHOL,  of  Glasgow. 

WILL  BE  PUBLISHED  EARLY  IN  DECEMBER, 

POEMS. 

RALPH     WALDO     EMERSON. 

In  one  handsome  volume,  doth  gilt. 


are  very  beautiful ;  and  while  they  will 
serve  to  make  the  mere  English  reader 
acquainted  with  two  of  the  most  perfect 
works  ever  written,  the  Iphigenia  and 
the  Tasso,  they  will  form  useful  assist 
ants  to  those  who  are  commencing  the 
study  of  the  German  language."— Fo 
reign  Quarterly  Keriew. 

"  Tin's  English  version  presents  these 
poems  to  us  in  a  garb  not  unwo»thy  of 
the  conceptions  of  their  authors."— 
Monthig  Chronicle. 

"The  verse  is  smooth  and  harmo 
nious,  and  no  one  acquainted  with  the 
original  can  fail  to  be  struck  with  its 
great  Iklelity  and  accuracy." — Christian 
Teacher. 


Chapman,  Brothers,  121,  Xeicyate-  street.  11 


London,  121,  Newgate-street, 
^,  1846. 


PROPOSAL 

FOB   THE 

PUBLICATION    OF   A    CHEAP    EDITION 

OF 

THE   EVIDENCES 

OF   THE 

GENUINENESS  OF  THE  GOSPELS. 

BT 

ANDREWS  NORTON, 

PROFESSOR    OF    SACKED    LITERATURE, 
Harvard  University,  Massachusetts. 


*%*  There  will  be  about  fifty  pages  of  new  matter  in  the  first 
volume,  and  this  edition  of  the  work  will  embody  throughout 
various  alterations  and  corrections  made  by  the  author  at  the 
present  time. 


THE  Work  consists  of  three  Parts,  as  follows  : — 
PART    I. 

PROOF  THAT  THE   GOSPELS  REMAIN  ESSENTIALLY  THE   SAME 
AS    THEY    WERE    ORIGINALLY    COMPOSED. 

PART   II. 

HISTORICAL     EVIDENCE     THAT     THE     GOSPELS     HAVE     BEEN 
ASCRIBED     TO    THEIR    TRUE    AUTHORS. 

PART    III. 

ON  THE  EVIDENCES  FOR  THE   GENUINENESS  OF   THE  GOSPELS 
AFFORDED    BY    THE    EARLY   HERETICS. 

The  very  copious  Notes  appended  to  each  volume  constitute 
about  half  the  amount  of  the  entire  work. 


12  Works  published  by 


The  American  Edition  occupies  three  large  Svo  volumes,  com 
prising  in  the  whole  1572  pages,  and  has  been  hitherto  nearly 
inaccessible  to  the  Biblical  Student,  in  consequence  of  its  extre 
mely  high  price  ;  —  it  has  been  selling  for  21.  14*.  per  copy. 

MESSES.  CHAPMAN,  BROTHERS,  propose  to  publish  the  entire 
work  in  two  handsome  volumes,  demy  Svo,  elegantly  bound  in 
cloth  ;  the  first  volume  will  be  the  same  as  the  first  volume  of 
the  original,  the  second  one  will  comprise  the  second  a^id  third 
volumes  of  the  American  edition,  each  of  which  are  smaller  than 
the  first. 

The  text  of  the  Work  will  be  printed  in  type  of  the 
same  size  and  character  as  that  in  which  the  present 
paragraph  appears,  and  the  notes  will  be  printed  in 
type  like  the  first  paragraph  of  the  quotations  appen 
ded  to  this  Prospectus. 

The  Work  will  be  offered  to  Subscribers  on  the  terms  speci 
fied  below  ;  and  as  soon  as  400  copies  are  subscribed  for,  the 
Work  will  be  put  to  press. 

:prtce  to 


For  one  copy       .  .....    15*-  0^- 

For  five  copies  .....       13    6  each. 

For  ten  copies       .....    12    6    » 


NOTICES  OF  THE  WORK. 

From  the  Quarterly  Review,  March,  1846. 

"  Professor  Norton  has  devoted  a  whole  volume  full  of  inge 
nious  reasoning  and  solid  learning,  to  show  that  the  Gnostic 
sects  of  the  second  century  admitted  in  general  the  same  sacred 
books  Avith  the  orthodox  Christians.  However  doubtful  may  be 
his  complete  success,  he  has  made  out  a  strong  case,  which,  as 
far  as  it  goes,  is  one  of  the  most  valuable  confutations  of  the 
extreme  German  ^wpi^Wree,  an  excellent  subsidiary  contribution 
to  the  proof  of  the  '  genuineness  of  the  Scriptures'  *  *  * 
His  work  on  the  Genuineness  of  the  Scriptures  is  of  a  high  in 
tellectual  order." 


Chapman,  Brothers,  121,  Newgate-street  13 


From  the  North  American  Review, 

"  This  (the  2nd  and  3rd  volumes)  is  a  great  work  upon  the  philosophy  of  the 
early  history  of  our  faith,  and  upon  the  relations  of  that  faith  with  t'ie  religious 
systems  and  the  speculative  opinions  which  then  formed  the  belief  or  ei 
the  attention  of  the  whole  civilized  world.  The  subject  is  one  of  vast  compass 
and  great  importance;  and  fortunately  it  has  been  examined  with  much 
thoroughness,  caution,  and  independence.  The  conclusions  arrived  at  are  those 
of  one  who  thinks  for  himself, — not  created  by  early  prepossessions,  nor  restricted 
within  the  narrow  limits  of  opinions  peculiar  to  any  school  or  sect.  The  origi 
nality  and  good  sense  of  Mr.  Norton's  general  remarks  impress  the  reader  quite 
as  strongly  as  the  accuracy  of  his  scholarship,  and  the  wide  range  of  learning  with 
which  the  subject  is  illustrated.  His  mind  is  neither  cumbered  nor  confused  by 
the  rich  store  of  its  acquisitions,  but  works  with  the  greatest  clearness  and  effect 
when  engaged  in  the  most  discursive  and  far-reaching  investigations. 

"A  great  portion  of  the  work,  indeed,  belongs  to  ecclesiastical  history;  but  it 
does  not  deal  with  the  men  and  the  events  of  that  history,  it  relates  almost  exclu 
sively  to  thoughts  and  theories.  It  analyzes  systems  of  philosophy :  it  examines 
creeds  ;  it  traces  the  changes  and  the  influences  of  opinions.  Nearly  the  whole  of 
the  work,  as  the  German  would  say,  belongs  to  the  history  of 'pure  reason,'  The 
originality  of  Mr.  Norton's  views  is" one  of  their  most  striking  characteristics.  He 
does  not  deem  it  necessary,  as  too  many  theologians  have  done,  to  defend  the 
records  of  his  faith  by  stratagem.  The  consequence  is,  that  his  work  is  one  of  the 
most  unanswerable  books  that  ever  was  written.  It  comes  as  near  to  demonstra 
tion  as  the  nature  of  moral  reasoning  will  admit. 

"  As  an  almost  unrivalled  monument  of  patience  and  industry,  of  ripe  scholar 
ship,  thorough  research,  eminent  ability,  and  conscientious  devotion  to  the  cause  of 
truth,  the  work  may  well  claim  respectful  consideration.  The  reasoning  is  emi 
nently  clear,  simple,  and  direct ;  and  not  a  single  page  contains  any  parade  of 
scholarship,  though  the  whole  work  is  steeped  in  the  spirit,  and  abounds  with  the 
results  of  the  most  profound  learning.  The  simplicity  and  chasteness  of  the  style 
may  be  deemed  even  excessive,  and  the  logic  is  as  pure,  lucid,  and  stringent"  as 
that  of  the  mathematician. 

"  The  tenets  of  the  Gnostics,  when  viewed  in  their  relation  to  the  doctrines  of 
Christianity,  and  to  the  philosophy  of  the  Greeks,  open  many  curious  questions 
respecting  the  phenomena  of  mind,  and  the  formation  of  opinion,  which  are  dis 
cussed  in  these  volumes  with  great  ability.  There  is  an  air  of  freshness  and  ori 
ginality  in  these  speculations  which  gives  them  a  lively  interest,  in  spite  of  the 
abstruseuess  of  the  subject. 

"  The  whole  tenor  of  the  work  bears  out  the  presumption  which  immediately 
arises,  that  labour  begun  and  prosecuted  in  this  way  could  not  have  been  sus 
tained  by  selfish  considerations, — that  the  author  could  not  have  been  animated 
by  regard  for  his  own  reputation,  but  must  have  found  his  only  incitement  and 
reward  in  the  expected  gain  to  the  interests  of  truth." 

From  the  Prospective  Renew. 

"  The  first  volume  of  this  work  was  published  so  long  ago  as  the  year  1837.  At 
the  close  of  it  the  author  announces  his  intention  to  pursue  the  argument,  by  in 
quiring  into  the  evidence  to  be  derived  from  the  testimony  of  the  different  here 
tical  Sects.  It  is  to  this  part  of  the  subject  that  the  second  and  third  volumes, 
now  before  us,  are  directed, — which  are  evidently  the  fruit  of  much  labour, 
research,  and  extensive  reading;  and  contain  a  variety  of  very  curious  incidental 
matter,  highly  interesting  to  the  student  of  ecclesiastical  history,  and  of  the 
human  mind. 

"  There  are  many  interesting  and  curious  discussions  of  an  incidental  nature. 
Among  these  we  may  particularly  specify  the  remarks  on  the  character  of  the 
ancient  philosophy  in  the  third  volume,  and  a  very  curious  note  in  the  appendix 
to  the  same  volume,  on  the  distinctions  made  by  the  ancients  between  things 
Intelligible  and  things  Sensible,  and  on  the  nature  of  Matter. 

"May  we  be  allowed,  in  conclusion,  to  express  our  regret  that  a  work  of  so 
much  interest  and  value  should  have  been  got  up  in  so  expensive  a  style,  and 
consequently  sold  at  a  price  which  renders  it  almost  inaccessible  to  many,  who 
would  be  both  most  desirous  and  best  qualified  to  derive  from  it  the  information 
and  improvement  it  is  so  well  fitted  to  afford." 


%*  In  order  to  accelerate  the  publication  of  the  work,  Sub- 
fibers  are  requested  to  forward  their  names  IMMEDIATELY  to 
the  publishers,  MESSES.  CHAPMAN,  BROTHERS. 


14  TForks  published  by 


Cf;e    Catftolir 


PUBLISHED    BY 

CHAPMAN,  BROTHERS,  121,  NEWGATE  STREET,  LONDON. 


THE  Publishers  of  "The  Catholic  Series"  intend  it  to  consist  of  Works 
of  a  liberal  and  comprehensive  character,  judiciously  selected,  embracing 
various  departments  of  literature. 

An  attempt  has  been  made  by  the  Church  of  Rome  to  realize  the  idea  of 
Catholicism — at  least  in  form — and  with  but  a  partial  success  ;  an  attempt 
will  now  be  made  to  restore  the  word  Catholic  to  its  primitive  significance, 
in  its  application  to  this  Series,  and  to  realize  the  idea  of  Catholicism  in 
SPIRIT. 

It  cannot  be  hoped  that  each  volume  of  the  Series  will  be  essentially 
Catholic,  and  not  partial,  in  its  nature,  for  nearly  all  men  are  partial ; — the 
many-sided  and  ^partial,  or  truly  Catholic  man,  has  ever  been  the  rare  ex 
ception  to  his  race.  Catholicity  may  be  expected  in  the  Series,  not  in  every 
volume  composing  it. 

An  endeavour  will  be  made  to  present  to  the  Public  a  class  of  books  of  an 
interesting  and  thoughtful  nature,  and  the  authors  of  those  of  the  Series 
which  may  be  of  a  philosophical  character  will  probably  possess  little  in  com 
mon,  except  a  love  of  intellectual  freedom  and  a  faith  in  human  progress ; 
they  will  be  united  by  sympathy  of  SPIRIT,  not  by  agreement  in  speculation. 

The  Steol  Engraving  of  the  Ideal  Head,  which  appears  on  the  Title-page  of 
the  latter  volumes — and  which  will  be  prefixed  to  each  succeeding  volume  of 
the  Series — has  been  taken  from  De  la  Roche's  picture  of  Christ.  It  was 
adopted,  not  specially,  because  it  was  intended  by  the  artist  to  express  his 
idea  of  Jesus  Christ  (for  that  must  always  be  imaginary),  but  as  an  embodi 
ment  of  the  highest  ideal  of  humanity,  and  thus  of  a  likeness  to  Jesus  Christ, 
as  its  highest  historical  realization. 

In  prefixing  this  Engraving  to  each  number  of  the  Series,  it  is  intended — 
by  the  absence  of  passion,  by  the  profound  intellectual  power,  the  beneficent 
and  loveful  nature,  and  the  serene,  spiritual  beauty,  always  associated  in  our 
noblest  conception  of  the  character  it  portrays — -to  imply  the  necessity  of 
aspiration  and  progress,  in  order  to  unfold  and  realise  the  nature  which  the 
artist  has  essayed  to  express  in  this  ideal  image ;  and  thus  to  typify  the  object 
that  will  be  invariably  kept  in  view,  by  those  whose  writings  may  form  a  part 
of  the  Catholic  Series,  and  which  each  volume  composing  it  may  be  expected 
to  promote. 


Chapman,  Brothers,  121,  Swfjaie-sireet.  15 


CHARACTERIZATION  OP  THE  CATHOLIC   SERIES 
BY  THE   PRESS. 


"Too  much  encouragement  cannot  be  given  to  enterprising  publications 
like  the  present.  They  are  directly  in  the  teeth  of  popular  prejudice  and 
popular  trash.  They  are  addressed  to  the  higher  class  of  readers — those  who 
think  as  well  as  read.  They  are  works  at  which  ordinary  publishers  shudder 
as  '  unsaleable,'  but  which  are  really  capable  of  finding  a  very  large  public." 
— Foreign  Quarterly. 

"  The  works  already  published  embrace  a  great  variety  of  subjects,  and 
display  a  great  variety  of  talent.  They  are  not  exclusively  nor  even  chiefly 
religious  ;  and  they  are  from  the  pens  of  German,  French,  American,  as  well 
as  En  dish  authors.  "Without  reference  to  the  opinion  which  they  contain,  we 
may  safely  say  that  they  are  generally  such  as  all  men  of  free  and  philoso 
phical  minds  would  do  well  to  know  and  ponder." — Noncomformut. 

"  This  series  deserves  attention,  both  for  what  it  has  already  given,  and  for 
what  it  promises." — Taifs  Magazine. 

"  It  is  highly  creditable  to  Mr.  Chapman  to  find  his  name  in  connexion 
with  so  much  well-directed  enterprise  in  the  cause  of  German  literature  and 
philosophy.  He  is  the  first  publisher  who  seems  to  have  proposed  to  himself 
the  worthy  object  of  introducing  the  English  reader  to  the  philosophic  mind 
of  Germany,  uninfluenced  by  the  tradesman's  distrust  of  the  marketable  nature 
of  the  article.  It  is  a  very  praiseworthy  ambition ;  and  we  trust  the  public 
will  justify  his  confidence.  Nothing  could  be  more  unworthy  than  the  at 
tempt  to  discourage,  and  indeed  punish,  such  unselfish  enterprise,  by  attaching 
a  bad  reputation  for  orthodoxy  to  every  thin?  connected  with  German  philo 
sophy  and  theology.  This  is  especially  unworthy  in  the  'student,'  or  the 
'  scholar,'  to  borrow  Fichte's  names,  who  should  disdain  to  set  themselves  the 
task  of  exciting,  by  their  friction,  a  popular  prejudice  and  clamour  on  matters 
on  which  the  populace  are  no  competent  judges,  and  have,  indeed,  no  judgment 
of  their  own, — and  who  should  feel,  as  men  themselves  devoted  to  thought, 
that  what  makes  a  good  book  is  not  that  it  should  gain  its  reader's  acquiescence, 
but  that  it  should  multiply  his  mental  experience ;  that  it  should  acquaint  him 
with  the  ideas  which  philosophers  and  scholars,  reared  by  a  training  different 
from  their  own,  have  laboriously  reached  and  devoutly  entertain ;  that,  in  a 
word,  it  should  enlarge  his  materials  and  his  sympathies  as  a  man  and  a 
thinker." — Prospect  ice  Review. 


16  Works  published  by 


This  day  is  Published,  in  two  vols.,  post  8vo,  cloth,  12s. 
extra  cloth,  gilt  edyes,  14s. 

CHARACTERISTICS 

OF 

MEN    OF    GENIUS; 

A  8EBIES   OP 

i3to  graphical,  $£tetorical,  ant)  Critical 

ESSAYS, 

SELECTED,    BY     PERMISSION,    CHIEFLY    FROM    THE    NORTH    AMERICAN 
REVIEW,    WITH   PREFACE, 

BY    JOHN    CHAPMAN. 


CONTENTS. 
ECCLESIASTICS. 

Gregory  VII v  and  his  Age. 

Loyola, — the  Founder  of  the  Jesuits. 

Pascal,  and  his  Writings. 

POETS. 

Dante  Shelley  Goethe 

Petrarch  Byron  Wordsworth 

Milton  Scott 

The  German  Poets, 

(A  recapitulation  of  Prof.  G.  G.  Gervinus's  "Geschichte  der  Poetischen 
National-Literatur  der  Deutschen.") 


ARTISTS. 


Michael  Angclo 


CanoTa 


STATESMEN. 


lachiayelli 
Louis  IX. 
Peter  the  Great. 


Clapuan,  Brothm,  121,  Newgate-street. 


17 


THE  CATHOLIC  SERIES — continued. 

Works  already  Published. 
The  Worship  of  Genins ; 

Being  an  Examination  of  tlie  Doctrine  announced  by  D.  F.  Straw,  viz. 
"  That  to  our  Aire  of  Uelisrious  Disorganization  nothing  is  left  but  a  Worship 
of  Genius ;  that  is,  a  Reverence  lor  those  great  Spirits  who  create  Epochs  in 
the  Progress  of  the  Human  Race,  and  in  whom,  taken  collectively,  the  God 
like  manifests  it-.  If  t-j  us  m  -t  fully,"  and  thus  having  reference  to  the  views 
unfolded  in  the  work  entitled,  "  Heroes  and  Hero-icomhip,"  by  Thomas  Carlyle. 

AND 

The  Distinctive  Character  or  Essence  of  Christianity : 

An  Essay  relative  to  Modern  Speculations  and  the  present  State  of  Opinion. 
Translated,  from  the  German  of  Prof.  C.  Ullmaun,  by  Lucv  SANFORD.  1  vol. 


post  >vo.  3s.  Gd. 


CONTENTS. 


1.  General  view  of  the  object  of  the 

v,-ork. 

2.  TI."_-  different  stages  of  development 

through  which'  Christianity  itself 
has  passed.  The  same  phases 
perceptible  in  the  views  wiacli 
have  been  successively  taken  of  it. 

3.  Christianity    as    Doctrine.      Under 

this  head  are  comprised  both 
Super-naturalism  and  Natu 
ralism. 

4.  Christianity  as  a  Moral  Law.    The 

philosophy  of  Kaiit.  nation 
alism. 

5.  Christianity  as  the  Religion  of  Re 


demption, 
finitiou. 


rmacher's  de- 


6.  The  peculiar  significance  and  in 

fluence    of    Christ's    individual 
character. 

7.  The  views  of  Hegel  and  his  school. 

8.  Christ  as  the  exemplification  of  the 

union  of  the  Divine  and  Human 
in  one  character. 

9.  Importance  of  this  truth  for  the  de 

finition  of  the  distinctive  Charac 
ter  of  Christianity. 

10.  Christianity  as  the  Perfect  Religion. 

1 1 .  Inferences  from  the  preceding. 

12.  Retrospect     and    epitome   of    the 

argnrnent. 

13.  Application  of  the  preceding  to  the 


idea  of  Faith. 

14.  Application  to  the  Church. 
**  The  above  two  works  are  comprised  in  one  volume,  post  Svo.  3s.  Gd.  cloth. 

There  is  in  it  much  important  and 
original  thought.     Intelligent  British 

/~M :  ,*i E_          • i:V.      i     -        *.„!_- 


"  There  are  many  just  and  beautiful 
conceptions  expressed  and  developed, 


and  the  mode  of  utterance  and  illustra 
tion  is  more  clear  and  simple  than  that 
adopted  often  by  our  German  brethren 
in  treating  such  topics." — Xvnconformitt. 


Christians,  who  are   inclined  to  take  | 
philosophical    views  of  the  Christian 
faith,  will  find  much  to  delight  and  in 
struct  them." — Baptist  Magazine. 


The  Mission  of  the  German  Catholics. 

By  Prof.  G.  G.  GERVINCS,  Author  of   the  "  Geschichte  der  Poetischen 
Xational-Literatur  dtr  Deutschen."    Post  8vo.  Is.  4d. 


"This  work  well  deserves  an  intro 
duction  to  an  English  public.    It  con- 


Reriew  says  : — "  He    exhibits  the  ex 
tensive    and   profound   erudition,    the 


tains  the  reflections  of  a  German  philo-  historical  faculty  of  bringing  past  and 
sopher  on  the  extraordinary  religious  remote  states  of  society  near,  and  pro- 
movement  which  is  now  agitating  his  jecting  the  present  into  the  distance; 
countrymen ;  his  anticipations,  and  his  and  the  philosophical  insight  into  the 
wishes  respecting  its  results  " — Inquirer,  distinguishing  features  of  individuals, 
In  an  article  upon  the  Author's  communities,  and  epochs,  which  so 
"  History  of  the  Poetical  Literature  of  favourably  characterize  the  recent  liis- 
the  Germans,"  the  North  American  toriography  of  the  Germans." 

The  Destination  of  flan. 


By  Jo H ANN  GOTTLIEB  FICTITE. 
PERCY  S.IXNETT.    3s.  Gd.  cloth. 
"  This  is  the  most  popular  exposition 
of  Ficiite's  philosophy  which  exists." — 
Memoir  of  Fic/tt",  ',>f  H".  Smith. 
"  '  The  Destination  of  Man '  is,  as 


Translated  from  the  German,  by  Mrs. 

Fichte  truly  says,  intelligible  to  all 
readers  who  are  really  able  to  under 
stand  a  book  at  all ;  arid  as  the  history 
of  the  mind  in  its  various  phases  of 


18 


Works 


THE    CATHOLIC    SERIES — 


doubt,  knowledge,  and  faith,  it  is  of 
interest  to  all.  Agree  with  Fichte,  or 
disagree  with  him,  you  cannot  help 
being  carried  along  by  his  earnestness  ; 
you  cannot  help  being  struck  with  his 
subtlety  and  depth.  Argument,  in  such 
a  matter,  we  take  to  be  wholly  in- 
di  He  rent.  A  book  of  this  stamp  is  sure 
to  tench  you  much,  because  it  excites 
thought.  If  it  rouses  you  to  combat 
his  conclusions,  it  has  done  a  good 
work  ;  for  in  that  very  effort  you  are 
stirred  to  a  consideration  or  points 
which  have  hitherto  escaped  your  in 
dolent  acquiescence.  Of  the  transla 
tion,  we  must,  on  the  whole,  speak  very 
highly.  It  is  accurate  in  the  best 
seir-e."  l''<,rci^n  (iuarterly. 

"  '  The  Destination  of  Man  'is  Fichte's 
most  popular  work,  and  is  every  way 


remarkable.  Aware  that  the  great 
public  was  fully  competent  to  grapple 
with  the  most  arduous  problems  of 
philosophy,  when  lucidly  stated,  how 
ever  it  might  sin-ink  from  the  jargon 
of  the  schools,  Fichte  undertook  to 
present  his  opinions  in  a  popular 

form Mrs.  Percy  Sinnett  lias 

thoroughly  mastered  the  meaning  of 
her  author,  presents  it  clearly  before 
the  reader,  and  that  without  perpetually 
murdering  our  language  by  the  intro 
duction  of  barbarous  neologisms." — 
Mat. 

"  It  appears  to  us  the  boldest  and 
most  emphatic  attempt  that  has  yet 
been  made  to  explain  to  man  his  rest 
less  and  unconquerable  desire  to  win 
the  true  and  the  eternal." — Sentinel. 


Charles  Elwood  5  or,  the  Infidel  Converted. 

By  0.  A.  UUOWNSON.    Post  8vo.  4s.  cloth ;  3s.  Gd.  paper  cover. 


"  Charles  Elwood  is  an  attempt  to  pre 
sent  Christianity  so  that  it  shall  satisfy 
the  philosophic  element  of  our  nature. 
In  this  consists  its  peculiar  merit  and 
its  distinctive  characteristic.  Such  a 
book  was  certainly  very  much  needed. 
We  have  no  doubt  that  it  will  add  many 
a  doubter  to  a  cheerful  faith,  and  con 
firm  many  a  feeble  mind  in  the  faith  it 
has  already  professed.  Mr.  Brownson 
addresses  the  philosophic  element,  and 
the  men  in  whom  this  element  is  pre 
dominant  ;  and,  of  course,  he  presents 
the  arguments  that  would  be  the  most 
striking  and  satisfactory  to  this  class  of 
men.  In  so  far  as  he  has  succeeded,  he 
must  be  considered  to  have  done  a  meri 
torious  work.  We  think  Mr.  Urownson 
eminently  qualified  for  this  task,  and 
that  his  success  is  complete.  The  work 
will,  doubtless,  be  the  means  of  giving 
composure  and  serenity  to  the  faith  of 
many  who  are  as  yet  weak  in  the  laith, 
or  halting  between  two  opinions." — 
C/tristi/iti  ExatmtnsT. 

"  In  a  series  of  chapters,  Mr.  Morton 
explains  the  nature  of  the  Christian 
faith,  and  replies  to  the  objections 
raised  by  Elwood  as  the  discussion  pro 
ceeds,  and  the  argument  we  take  to  be 
conclusive,  though  of  course  every  one 
may  differ  as  to  details.  The  mighty 
theme  is  handled  in  a  most  masterly 
style,  and  the  reasoning  may  fairly  be 
called  "  mathematical."  There  is  nei 
ther  rant  nor  cant,  hypothesis  or  dog 
matism.  Christianity  is  proved  to  be 
a  "rational  religious  system,"  and  the 
prieat  is  exhibited  in  his  true  character. 


We  can  cordially  recommend  the  vo 
lume,  after  a  very  careful  perusal,  to  the 
layman  who  desires  to  think  for  him 
self,  and  to  the  clergy,  as  eminently 
calculated  to  enlarge  their  views  and 
increase  their  usefulness,  by  showing 
them  the  difference  between  sectarian 
ism  and  Christianity." — Sentinel. 

"  The  purposes,  in  this  stage  of  his 
progress,  which  Mr.  Brownson  has  in 
view  are,  the  vindication  of  the  reality  of 
the  religious  principle  in  the  nature  of 
man ;  the  existence  of  an  order  of  senti 
ments  higher  than  the  calculations  of 
the  understanding  and  the  deductions 
of  logic ;  the  foundation  of  morals  on 
the  absolute  idea  of  right  in  opposition 
to  the  popular  doctrine  of  expediency ; 
the  exposition  of  a  spiritual  philosophy ; 
and  the  connexion  of  Christianity  with 
the  progress  of  society. 

"  The  work  presents  the  most  profound 
ideas  in  a  simple  and  attractive  form. 
The  discussion  of  these  principles, 
which  in  their  primitive  abstraction  are 
so  repulsive  to  most  minds,  is  carried 
on,  through  the  medium  of  a  slight  fic 
tion,  with  considerable  dramatic  effect. 
We  become  interested  in  the  final 
opinions  of  the  subjects  of  the  tale,  as 
we  do  in  the  catastrophe  of  a  romance. 
A  slender  thread  of  narrative  is  made 
to  sustain  the  most  weighty  arguments 
on  the  philosophy  of  religion;  but  the 
conduct  both  of  the  story  and  of  the 
discussion  is  managed  with  so  much 
skill,  that  they  serve  to  relieve  and  for 
ward  each  other." — Dial. 


Chap  MI  n,  Brothers,  121,  Newgate-street. 


19 


THE  CATHOLIC  SERIES — (continued.') 

On  the  Nature  of  the  Scholar,  and  its  Manifestations. 

By  JOIIANN  GOTTLIEB  FITCIIE.     Translated  from  the  German  ;  with  a 
Memoir  of  the  Author,  by  WILLIAM  SMITH.    Post  svo.  6s.  cloth. 

perfect  novelty These  orations 

are  admirably  fitted  for  their  purpose  ; 
so  grand  is  the  position  taken  by  the 
lecturer,  and  so  irresistible  their  elo 
quence.  To  his  excellent,  translation 
Mr.  Smith  lias  prefixed  a  biography  of 
Fichte,  abridged,  though  still  copious, 
from  the  one  written  by  Fichte,  junior." 
— Examiner. 

"  A  pure  and  exalted  morality  and 
deep  religious  feeling  breathes  through 
out  the  whole The  memoir 

prefixed  to  this  volume,  of  which  it  fills 
alxmt  half,  contains  a  concise  and  in 
teresting  account  of  Fichte's  bfe  and 
philosophical  system." — Irish  Monthly 
Magazine. 

"We  state  Fichte's  character  as  it  is 
known  and  admitted  by  men  of  all 
parties  among  the  Germans,  when  we 
say  that  so  robust  an  intellect,  a  soul  so 
calm,  so  lofty,  massive,  and  immove- 
able,  has  not  mingled  in  philosophical 
discussion  since  the  time  of  Luther. 
....  Fichte's  opinions  may  be  true 
or  false;  but  his  character  as  a  thinker 
can  be  slightly  valued  only  by  such  as 
know  it  ill ;  aiid  as  a  man,  approved  by 
action  and  suffering,  in  his  life  and  in 
his  death,  he  ranks  with  a  class  of  men 
who  were  common  only  in  better  ages 
than  ours." — State  of  German  Litera 
ture,  by  Thomas  Cartyle. 


"  This  work  consists  of  two  parts ; — 
a  Life  of  Fichte  full  of  nobleness  :nui 
instruction,  of  grand  purpose,  tender 
feeling,  and  brave  effort ;  and  a  scries 
of  ten  lectures  on  the  Vocation  and 
Functions  of  the  Scholar. 

"  The  memoir,  the  compilation  of 
which  is  executed  with  great  judgment 
and  fidelity,  is  the  best  preparation  or 
prelection  for  a  full  and  profitable  com 
prehension  of  the  somewhat  vague 
loftiness  of  these  eloquent  addresses." 
— Pnixjiectire  /tV ?•<>»/-. 

"  The  material  trials  that  Fichte  en 
countered  in  the  body  are  lost  sight  of 
in  the  spiritual  contest  which  he  main 
tained  with  his  own  mind.  The  page 
that  keeps  the  record  of  incidents  is 
dignified  throughout  by  the  strong 
moral  light  that  falls  everywhere  upon  j 
it,  like  a  glory,  and  sweetened  by  a  i 
living  episode  that  flo\ys  through  its 
dark  and  bright  places  like  a  stream  of 
music." — Athenaeum. 

"  With  great  satisfaction  we  welcome 
this   first    English    translation    of   an  ; 
author  who  occupies  the  most  exalted  i 
position  as  a   profound    and    original  '• 
thinker;  as  an  irresistible  orator  in  the 
cause  of  what  he  believed  to  be  truth ; 
as  a  thoroughly  honest  and  heroic  man. 
....    The  appearance  of  any  of  his 
works  in  our  language  is,  we  believe,  a  1 


The  Philosophical  and  Esthetic  Letters  and  Essays  of  Schiller. 

Translated,  with  an  Introduction,  by  J.  WEISS.    Post  Svo.  7s.  6d.  cloth. 


"  These  Letters  stand  unequalled  in  < 
the  department  of  ^Esthetics,  and  are  so  i 
esteemed  even  in  Germany,  which  is  so  i 
fruitful  upon  that    topic.     Schiller  is 
Germany's  best  JEsthetician,  and  these 
letters  contain  the  highest  moments  of 
Schiller.    Whether  we  desire  rigorous 
logical  investigation  or  noble  poetic  ex 
pression,  whether  we  wish  to  stimulate  j 
the  intellect  or  inflame  the  heart,  we 
need  seek  no  further  than  these.    They  ] 
are  trophies  won  from  an  unpopular,  j 
metaphysical  form,  by  a  lofty,  inspiring,  i 
and  absorbing  subject."— Introduction. 

"It  is  not  possible,  in  a  brief  notice 
like  the  present,  to  do  more  than  inti 
mate  the  kind  of  excellence  of  a  book 
of  this  nature.  It  is  a  profound  and 
beautiful  dissertation,  and  must  be  dili 
gently  studied  to  be  comprehended. 
After  all  the  innumerable  efforts  that  the 
present  age  has  been  some  time  making 
to  cut  a  Koyal  road  to  everything,  it  is 
beginning  to  find  that  what  sometimes 
seems  the  longest  way  round  is  the 


shortest  way  home ;  and  if  there  be  a 
desire  to  have  truth,  the  only  way  is  to 
work  at  the  windlass  one's  self,  and 
bring  up  the  buckets  by  the  labour  of 
one's  own  good  arm.  Whoever  works 
at  the  present  well,  will  find  ample 
reward  for  the  labour  they  may  bestow 
on  it ;  the  truths  he  will  draw  up  are 
universal,  and  from  that  pure  elemen 
tary  fountain  'that  maketh  wise  he  that 
drinketh  thereat.'" — Douglas  Jen-old's 
Mtnffiz>tie. 

"  It  is  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to 
give  a  brief,  and  at  the  same  time  faith 
ful,  summary  of  the  ideas  affirmed  by 
I  Schiller  in  this  volume.    Its  aim  is  to 
develop  the  ideal  of  humanity,  and  to 
define  the  successive  steps  which  must 
'  be    trodden    to    attain    it.     Its    spirit 
aspires  after  human  improvment,  and 
!  seeks  to  indicate  the  means  of  realiza- 
'  tion.     Schiller  insists  upon  the  necessi- 
;  ty  of  aesthetic  culture  as  preliminary  to 
moral  culture,  and   in  order  to  make 
the  latter  possible.    According  to  the 


20 


Works  published  ly 


THE    CATHOLIC    SERIES — (continued.') 


doctrine  here  set  forth,  until  man  is 
aesthetically  developed,  he  cannot  be 
morally  free,  hence  not  responsible,  as 
there  is  no  sphere  for  the  operation  of 
the  will. 

"  The  stylein  which  the  whole  volume  j 
is  written  is  particularly  beautiful,  there  i 
is  a  consciousness  of  music  in  every  page 
we  read ;  it  it  remarkable  for  the  con-  i 
densation  of  thought  and  firm  consist-  | 
ency  which  prevails  throughout;  and. 
so  far  as  we  are  able  to  judge,  the 
translation  is  admirably  and  faithfully 
rendered.      The   twenty-seven    letters 
upon  the  '  Esthetic  Culture  of  Man,' 
form  the  most  prominent,  and  by  far 
the  most  valuable,  portion  of  the  work  ; 
they  will  be  found  full  of  interest  and 
the  choicest  riches,  which  will  abund 
antly    repay    any    amount    of    labour 
bestowed  upon  them."— Inquirer. 

"  This  is  a  book  which  demands  and 
deserves  study.  Either  to  translate  or 
to  appreciate  it  requires  a  somewhat 
peculiar  turn  of  mind.  Not  that  any 
body  could  read  it  without  profit,  but  to 

The  Philosophy  of  Art. 


gain  from  it  all  that  it  is  capable  of 
yielding,  there  must  be  some  aptitude 
for  such  studies,  and  some  training  in 

them  too To  be  appreciated  it 

must  be  studied,  and  the  study  will  be 
well  repaid." — Christian  Examiner. 

"  Here  we  must  close,  unwillingly, 
this  volume,  so  abounding  in  food  for 
thought,  so  fruitful  of  fine  passages, 
heartily  commending  it  to  all  of  pur 
readers  who  desire  to  make  acquaint 
ance  with  the  philosophy  of  art.  The 
extracts  we  have  taken  will  prove  what 
a  treasure  is  here,  for  they  are  but  a 
fraction  of  the  gems  that  are  to  be 
gathered  in  every  page.  We  make  no 
apology  for  having  so  long  lingered  over 
this  book ;  for,  albeit,  philosophy  is 
somewhat  out  of  fashion  in  our  age  of 
materialism,  it  yet  will  find  its  votaries, 
fit  though  few ;  and  even  they  who  care 
not  for  the  higher  regions  of  reflection, 
cannot  fail  to  reap  infinite  pleasure 
from  the  eloquent  and  truthful  passages 
we  have  sought  to  cull  for  their  mingled 
delight  and  edification."—  Critic. 


An  Oration  on  the  Relation  of  the  Plastic  Arts  to  Nature.  Translated  from 
the  German  of  F.  W.  J.  VON  SCIIELLING,  by  A.  JOHNSON.  Post  8vo.  Is. 
paper  cover ;  Is.  Gd.  cloth. 


"  This  excellent  oration  is  an  appli 
cation  to  art  of  Schelling's  general 
philosophic  principles.  Schelling  takes 
the  bold  course,  and  declares  that  what 
is  ordinarily  called  nature  is  not  the 
summit  of  perfection,  but  is  only  the 
inadequate  manifestation  of  a  high 
idea,  which  it  is  the  office  of  man  to 
penetrate.  The  true  astronomer  is  not 
he  who  notes  down  laws  and  causes 
which  were  never  revealed  to  sensuous 
organs,  and  which  are  often  opposed  to 
the  prima  facie  influences  of  sensuous 
observers.  The  true  artist  is  not  he  who 
merely  imitates  an  isolated  object  in 
nature,  but  he  who  can  penetrate  into 
the  unseen  essence  that  lurks  behind 
the  visible  crust,  and  afterwards  re 
produce  it  in  a  visible  form.  In  the 
surrounding  world  means  and  ends  are 


clashed  and  jarred  together ;  in  the 
work  of  art  the  heterogenous  is  ex 
cluded,  and  an  unity  is  attained  not  to 
be  found  elsewhere.  Schelling,  in  his 
oration,  chiefly,  not  exclusively,  regards 
the  arts  of  painting  and  sculpture;  but 
his  remarks  will  equally  apply  to 
others,  such  as  poetry  and  music.  This 
oration  of  Schelling's  deserves  an  exten 
sive  perusal.  The  translation,  witli  the 
exception  of  a  few  trifling  inaccurrcies, 
is  admirably  done  by  Mr.  Johnson ; 
and  we  know  of  no  work  in  our  language 
better  suited  to  give  a  notion  of  the  turn 
which  German  philosophy  took  after  it 
abandoned  the  subjectivity  of  Kant  and 
Fichte.  The  notion  will,  of  course,  be 
a  faint  one;  but  it  is  something  to  know 
the  latitude  and  longitude  of  a  mental 
position."— Examiner. 


The  Life  of  Jean  Paul  Fr,  Richter. 

Compiled  from  various  sources.    Together  with  his  Autobiography.    Transla 
ted  from  the  German.    2  vols.  paper  cover,  7s.  ;  cloth,  8s. 

"  The  autobiography  of  Richter,  which 
extends  only  to  his  twelfth  year,  is  one 
of  the  most  interesting  studies  of  a  true 


poet's    childhood    ever    given   to   the 
world."  —  Lowers  Edinburgh  Magazine. 

"  Richter  lias  an  intellect  vehement, 
rugged,  irresistible,  crushing  in  pieces 
the  hardest  problems  ;  piercing  into  the 
most  hidden  combinations  of  things, 
and  grasping  the  most  distant;  an 


imagination  vague,  sombre,  splendid, 
or  appalling,  brooding  orer  the  abysses 
of  being,  wandering  through  infinitude, 
and  summoning  before  us,  in  its  dim 
religious  light,  shapes  of  brilliancy, 
solemnity,  or  terror;  a  fancy  of  exu 
berance  literally  unexampled,  for  it 
pours  its  treasures  with  a  lavishness 
which  knows  no  limit,  hanging,  like 
the  sun,  a  jewel  on  every  grass-blade, 


Chapman,  Brothers.,  121,  Newgate-street. 


21 


THE    CATHOLIC    SERIES — (continued.) 


and  sowing  the  earth  at   large  with  1 
orient    pearls.     But    deeper   than    all  j 
these  lies  humour,  the  ruling  quality  j 
of  RICHTER— as  it  were  the  central  fire  ' 
that  pervades    and  vivifies  his  whole 
being.    He  is  a  humorist  from  his  in 
most  soul ;  he  thinks  as  a  humorist ;  he 
imagines,  acts,  feels    as    a    humorist: 
sport   is   the   element    in    which    his 
nature    lives   and   works." — THOMAS  j 
CARLYLE. 

"  With  such  a  writer  it  is  no  common  | 
treat  to  be  intimately  acquainted.    In 
the   proximity  of  great  and  virtuous  ! 
minds  we  imbibe  a  portion  of  their  na-  ; 
ture — feel,  as  mesmerists  say,  a  health-  '• 
ful  contagion,  are  braced  with  the  same 
spirit  of  faith,  hope,  and  patient  en 
durance — are  furnished  with  data  for 
clearing  up  and  working  out  the  intri 
cate  problem  of  life,  and  are  inspired, 
like  them,  with  the  prospect  of  immor 
tality.    Xo  reader  of  sensibility  can  rise 
from  the  perusal  of  these  volumes  with 
out  becoming  both  wiser  and  better.'' — 
Atiat. 

"  We  find  in  the  present  biography 
much  that  does  not  so  much  amuse 
an  I  instruct,  as,  to  adopt  a  phrase  from 
the  religious  world,  positively  edify  tiie 
reader.  The  life  of  Richter  is  indeed 
a  moral  and  a  religious,  as  much  as  a 
literary  treat,  to  all  who  have  a  sense 
exercised  to  discern  religion  and  mora 
lity  as  a  thing  essentially  different  from 
mere  orthodoxy  and  asceticism.  The 
two  volumes  before  us  cannot  be  se 
riously  read  without  stimulating  the 
reader,  like  a  good  sermon,  to  self-ame 
lioration,  and  in  this  respect  they  are 
invaluable. 

"  Richter  is  a  thorough  Christian,  and 
a  Christian  with  alarge  glowing  human 
heart.  The  appearance  of  his  biography 
in  an  English  form  cannot,  therefore, 
but  be  regarded  as  a  great  boon  to  the 
best  interests  of  the  country." — Tuft's 
Magtuente. 

"  Apart  from  the  interest  of  the  work, 
as  the  life  of  Jean  Paul,  the  reader 
learns  something  of  German  life  and 
German  thought,  and  is  introduced  to 
Weiinar  during  its  most  distinguished 
period — when  Goethe,  Schiller,  Herder, 
and  Wieland,  the  great  fixed  stars  of 
Germany,  in  conjunction  with  Jean 
Paul,  were  there,  surrounded  by  beau 
tiful  and  admiring  women,  of  tlie  most 

Essays.     By  R.  W.  Emerson. 


refined  and  exalted  natures,  and  of 
princely  rank.  It  is  full  of  passages  so 
attractive  and  valuable  that  it  is  dim- 
cult  to  make  a  selection  as  examples  of 
its  character." — Inquirer. 

"  This  book  will  be  found  very  valu 
able  as  an  introduction  to  the  study  of 
one  of  the  most  eccentric  and  difficult 
writers  of  Germany.  Jean  Paul's  writ 
ings  are  so  much  the  reflex  of  Jean  Paul 
himself,  that  every  light  that  shines 
upon  the  one  inevitably  illumines  the 
other.  The  work  is  a  useful  exhibition 
of  a  great  and  amiable  man,  who,  pos 
sessed  of  the  kindliest  feelings,  and  the 
most  brilliant  fantasy,  turned  to  a  high 
purpose  that  humour  of  which  Rabelais 
is  the  great  grandfather,  and  Sterne  one 
of  the  line  of  ancestors,  and  contrasted 
it  with  an  exaltation  of  feeling  and  a 
rhapsodical  poetry  which  are  entirely 
his  own.  Let  us  hope  that  it  will  com- 

6lete  the  work  begun  by  Mr.  Carlyle's 
?says,  and  cause  Jean  Paul  to  be  really 
read  in  this  country." — Examiner. 

"  Richter  is  exhibited  in  a  most  ami 
able  light  in  this  biography— industri 
ous,  frugal,  benevolgnt,  with  a  child-like 
simplicity  of  character,  and  a  heart 
overflowing  with  the  purest  love.  His 
letters  to  his  wife  are  beautiful  memo 
rials  of  true  affection,  and  the  way  in 
which  he  perpetually  speaks  of  his  chil 
dren  shows  that  he  was  the  most  at 
tached  ami  indulgent  of  fathers.  Who 
ever  came  within  the  sphere  of  his  com 
panionship  appears  to  have  contracted 
an  affection  for  him  that  death  only 
dissolved:  and  while  his  name  was  re 
sounding  through  Germany,  lie  re 
mained  as  meek  and  humble  as  if  he 
had  still  been  an  unknown  adventurer 
on  Parnassus." — The  Apprentice. 

"  The  life  of  Jean  Paul  is  a  charmfaur 
piece  of  biosrraphy  which  draws  and 
rivets  tiie  Attention.  The  affections  of 
the  reader  are  fixed  on  the  hero  with  an 
intensity  rarely  bestowed  on  an  his 
torical  character.  It  is  impossible  to 
read  this  biosrraphy  without  a  convic 
tion  of  its  integrity  and  truth:  and 
though  Ritcher's  style  is  more  difficult 
of  translation  than  that  of  any  other 
German,  yet  we  feel  that  his  golden 
tiu'iights  have  reached  us  pure  from  the 
mine,  to  which  he  has  given  that  impress 
of  genius  which  makes  them  current  in 
all  countries." — Christian  Reformer. 


(Second  Series.) 
3s.  6d.  cloth. 


With  a  Xotice  by  THOMAS  CARLYLE.    3s.  paper  cover  ; 


"  Among  the  distinguishing  features 
of  Christianity — we  are  ready  to  say  XH;-: 
distinguishing  feature— is  its  humanity, 
its  deep  sympathy  with  human  kind, 


an  1  its  strong  advocacy  of  human  wants 
and  rights.  In  this  particular,  few 
have  a  better  title  to  be  ranked  among 
the  followers  of  Jesus  than  the  author 


Works  published  ty 


THE  CATHOLIC  SERIES — (continued.) 


of  this  book." — American  Christian  Ex 
aminer. 

"  The  difficulty  we'  find  in 
proper  notice  of  this  volume, 
from  thepervadingness  of  its  excellence, 
and  the  compression  of  its  matter. 
With  more  learning  than  Hazlitt,  more 
perspicuity  than  Carlyle,  more  vigour 
and  depth  of  thought  than  Addison,  and 
with  as  much  originality  and  fascination 
as  any  of  them,  this  volume  is  a  bril 
liant  addition  to  the  Table  Talk  of  in 
tellectual  men,  be  they  who  or  where 
they  may."— Prospective  Review. 

"  Mr.  Emerson  is  not  a  common  man, 
and  everything  lie  writes  contains  sug 
gestive  matter  of  much  thought  and 
earnestness." — Examiner. 

"  That  Emerson  is,  in  a  high  degree, 
-  -n  of  the  faculty  and  vision  of 


the  seer,  none  can  doubt  who  will  ear 
nestly  and  with  a  kind  and  reverential 
spirit  peruse  these  nine  Essays.  He 
deals  only  with  the  true  and  the  eternal. 
His  piercing  gaze'at  once  shoots  swiftly, 
surely  through  the  outward  and  the  su 
perficial,  to  the  inmost  causes  and  work 
ings.  Any  one  can  tell  the  time  who 
looks  on  the  face  of  the  clock,  but  he 
loves  to  lay  bare  the  machinery  and 
show  its  moving  principle.  His  words 
and  his  thoughts  are  a  fresh  spring, 
that  invigorates  the  soul  that  is  steeped 
therein.  His  mind  is  ever  dealing  with 
the  eternal ;  and  those  who  only  live  to 
exercise  their  lower  intellectual  facul 


ties,  and  desire  only  new  facts  and  new 
images,  and  those  who  have  not  a  feel 
ing  or  an  interest  in  the  great  question 
of  mind  and  matter,  eternity  and  nature, 
will  disregard  him  as  unintelligible  and 
uninteresting,  as  they  do  Bacon  and 
Plato,  and,  indeed,  philosophy  itself." — 
Douglas  Jerrold's  Magazine. 

"  Beyond  social  science,  because  be 
yond  and  outside  social  existence,  there 
lies  the  science  of  self,  the  development 
of  man  in  his  individual  existence, 
within  himself  and  for  himself.  Of  this 
latter  science,  which  may  perhaps  be 
called  the  philosophy  of  individuality, 
Mr.  Emerson  is  an  able  apostle  and 
interpreter." — League. 

"  As  regards  the  particular  volume  of 
EMEUSON  before  us,  we  think  it  an  im 
provement  upon  the  first  series  of  essays. 
The  subjects  are  better  chosen.  They 
come  more  home  to  the  experience  of 
the  mass  of  makind,  and  are  conse 
quently  more  interesting.  Their  treat- 
;  ment  also  indicates  an  artistic  improve 
ment  in  the  composition."— Spectator. 

"All  lovers  of  literature  will  read 
Mr.  Emerson's  new  volume,  as  the 
most  of  them  have  read  his  former  one  ; 
and  if  correct  taste,  and  sober  views  of 
life,  and  such  ideas  on  the  higher  sub 
jects  of  thought  as  we  have  been  ac 
customed  to  account  as  truths,  are 
sometimes  outraged,  we  at  least  meet 
at  every  step  with  originality,  imagi 
nation,  and  eloquence."— Inquirer. 


The  Emancipation  of  the  Negroes  in  the  British  West  Indies. 

An  Address  delivered  at  Concord,  Massachusetts,  on  the  1st  of  August,  1844. 
By  II.  W.  EMERSON.    Post  8vo.  Gd.  paper  cover. 

"  It  is  really  purifying  to  be  able  to  i  rica  of  a  potential  voice,  who  can  utter 
turn,  at  this  moment,  to  anything  these  words  of  reproof  to  his  country,  of 
righteous  and  generous  from  an  Amcri-  |  justice  to  Great  Britain." — Pros.  Her. 

"  We  need  not  tell  any  one  who  has 
the  slightest  acquaintance  with  his  pre 
vious  writings  that  Mr.  Emerson  is  elo 
quent  ;  and  here  he  has  a  i?oble  subject, 
into  which  he  has  thrown  his  whole 
soul." — Inquirer. 


can  on  Slavery  and  Great  Britain, 
to  be  relieved  from  the  scorn  and  loath 
ing  produced  by  Mr.  Calhoun's  Letter 
to  the  American  Minister  at  Paris. 
Since  Channing  is  no  more,  it  is  a  satis 
faction  that  there  is  one  man  in  Anie- 


The  Roman  Church  and  Modern  Society. 


By  E.  QUINET,  of  the  College  of  France.  Translated  from  the  French  Third 
Edition  (with  the  Author's  approbation),  by  C.  COCKS,  B.L.  8vo.  5s.  cloth. 


' '  We  take  up  this  enlightened  volume, 
which  aims,  in  the  spirit  of  history  and 
philosophy,  to  analyze  the  Romanist 
principle,  with  peculiar  pleasure.  A 
glance  at  the  headings  of  the  chapters 
much  interested  ourselves,  and  we  doubt 
not  will  our  readers :— The  Superlatively 
Catholic  Kingdom  of  Spain ;  Political 
Results  of  Catholicism  in  Spain ;  The 
Roman  Church  and  the  State ;  The 
Roman  Church  and  Science ;  The  Ro 


man  Church  and  History ;  The  Roman 
Church  and  Law ;  The  Roman  Church 


and 


and  Philosophy ;  The  Roman  Church 
and  Nations  ;  The  Roman  Church 


the  Universal  Church." — Christian  Re 
former. 

"  The  fourth  lecture,  entitled  '  The 
Roman  Church  and  Science,'  appears  to 
us  the  most  striking  and  luminous  ex 
position  we  have  seen  of  the  condition 
of  the  Roman  church,  and  of  itsunavail- 


•_    Chapman,  Brothers,  121,  Nevgate-street. 


23 


THE  CATHOLIC  SERIES — (continued.} 


ing  hostility  to  the  progress  of  mankind. 
Our  space  precludes  the  possibility  of 
quoting  the  whole,  or  we  should  do  so 
with  great  pleasure.  It  delineates,  in 
vivid  colours,  the  history  of  Galileo,  his 
character,  his  discoveries,  his  philo 
sophical  protest  against  the  theology  of 
Rome,  the  horrible  persecutions  which 
he  suffered,  and  his  effects  upcii  the 
ecclesiastical  power — changing  the  rela 
tive  positions  of  science  and  the  church, 
unfolding  a  theology  more  profound 
than  that  of  Home,  a  code  of  laws  more 
infallible  than  that  of  the  church,  a 
grand  and  comprehensive  system  of 
ideas  transcending  in  its  Catholicity 
Catholicism  itself. 

"  The  four  remaining  lectures  are 
severally  entitled— The  Roman  Church 
and  Law  (in  which  the  Inquisition  is  a 
conspicuous  subject)  —  The  Roman 
Church  and  Philosophy — The  Roman 
Church  and  Nations— The  Roman 
Church  and  the  Universal  Church.  We 
cannot  characterize  each  of  these  in 
particular:  suffice  it  to  say  that  there  is 
a  profound  and  expansive"  philosophical 
spirit  breathing  through  the  whole; 
every  subject  is  compelled  to  contribute 
it;  entire  force  of  facts  and  illustration 
for  the  construction  of  the  one  great 
argument  which  is  the  object  and  com 
plement  of  each— viz.,  that  the  Roman 
Church  is  no  longer  adequate  to  the 
enlarged  needs  and  aspirations  of  man 
kind,  that  it  has  fulfilled  the  mission  for 

j  which  it  was  originated— that  the  ener 
gies  it  once  put  forth  in  the  cause  of 
humanity  are  paralyzed,  that  its  decre 
pitude  is  manifest,  and  its  vitality 
threatened,  that"  it  has  shown  itself  in- 

;  capable  of  continuing  as  the  minister  of 

i 


God's  will,  and  the  interpreter  of  those 
divine  laws  whose  incarnation  in  human 
life  is  the  pledge  of  man's  spiritual  ad 
vancement  and  happiness,  that  it  heeds 
not  the  signs  oi  the  times,  refuses  any 
alliance  with  the  spirit  of  progression, 
clings  tenaciously  to  the  errors  and 
dead  formulas  of  the  past,  recognizes 
the  accession  of  no  new  truths,  and 
hence  prostrates  the  intellect,  proscribes 
the  enlargement  of  our  spiritual  boun 
daries,  lays  an  inderdict  on  human  pro 
gress,  compels  us  to  look  perpetually 
backwards,  and  blights  our  hopes  of  the 
future,  and— in  the  words  of  Quinet — 
'  represents  the  earth  as  a  condemned 
world  formed  for  chastisement  and  evil.' 

"  Considered  as  a  whole,  the  book  be 
fore  us  is  the  most  powerful  and  philo 
sophically  consistent  protest  against 
the  Roman  Church  which  h;- 
claimed  our  attention,  and,  as  a  strong 
confirmation  of  its  stirring  efficiency, 
we  may  mention  that  the  excitement  it 
has  created  in  Faris  lias  subjected  the 
author  to  a  reprimand  from  both  Cham 
bers  of  the  Legislature,  and  excommu 
nication  by  the  Pope.'' — Inquirer. 

"  31.  Quiuet  belongs  to  the  movement 
party,  and  has  lately  been  conspicuous 
in  resisting  the  pretensions  of  the  Jesuit 
and  French  clergy  to  the  exclusive  edu 
cation  of  the  youth  of  France.  He  has 
grappled  with  his  theme  both  practi 
cally,  and  in  the  philosophical  spirit  of 

history Rare  merits  are  comprised 

in  this  volume a  gemiine  spirit 

pervades  it,  and  there  are  many  pusa- 
ges  of  great  depth,  originality  aud  elo 
quence." — Atlas. 

" These  eloquent   and   valuable 

lectures."— -Yew  Church  Adrocate. 


The  Rationale  of  Religions  Inquiry  $ 

Or,  the  Question  stated,  of  Reason,  the  Bible,  and  the  Church.  By  JAMES 
MARTINEAU.  Thi'd  Edition,  With  a  Critical  Letter  on  Ration ali-m,  Mira 
cles,  aud  the  Authority  of  Scripture,  by  the  late  Rev.  JOSEPH  BLANCO 
WHITE.  4s.  paper  cover ;  4s.  Gd.  cloth. 

Sermons  of  Consolation, 


By  F.  W.  P.  GREENWOOD,  D.D.    5s.  cloth. 


"  This  is  a  really  delightful  volume, 
which  we  would  gladly  see  producing 
its  purifying  and  elevating  influences  in 
all  our  families." — Inr/uirer. 

"  This  beautiful  volume  we  are  sure 

Self-Culture. 

By  WILLIAM  ELLERY 

Christianity,  or  Europe. 


will  meet  with  a  grateful  reception  from 
all  who  seek  instruction  on  the  topics 
most  interesting  to  a  thoughtful  mind. 
There  are  twenty-seven  sermons  in  the 
volume."—  C/irisiiun  E.i-a>.'. 


6d.  paper  cover ;  Is.  cloth. 


Translated  from  the  German  of  XOVALIS  (Friedrich  von  Hardenberg),  by 
the  Rev.  J.  DALTO>.    Gd.  paper  cover. 


24  Works  published  by  Chapman,  Brothers. 

Cfte  Catftoltr  &mt$. 

(Uniform,  in  Post  Octavo.) 

For  Prospectus,  explaining  the  Principles  and  Object  of  the  Scries, 
and  for  the  Opinions  of  the  Press,  see  pages  15  and  16  of  the 
Catalogue. 


The  whole  of  the  Works  which  have  been  published  in  the  Scries  appear 
in  the  following  list ;  but  for  the  prices  of  the  different  books,  and  criticisms 
upon  them,  see  the  preceding  pages  from  17  to  23. 

Works  already  Published. 

1.  The  Philosophical  and  JEstlLetic  letters 

anil  Essays  of  Schiller. 
«.  The  Philosophy  of  Art.  By  F.  W.  J.  Von  Schelling. 

3.  Tfiie  destination  of  Man.    By  Jokami  G.  Fichte. 

4.  The  Nature  of  the  Scholar  anil  its  Mani 

festations.     By  Johann  Gottlieb  Fichte. 

5.  Essays.     By  R.  W.  Emerson. 

6.  The  Emancipation  of  the  Negroes.    By 

R.  W.  Emerson. 

7.  The  Iiife  of  Jean  Paul  Fr.  Michter.    2vols. 

8.  The    Roman   (Church  and   Modern   So 

ciety.     By  E.  Quinet. 

O.  The  Rationale  of  Iteligious  Inquiry.    By 
James  Martineau, 

1O.  Charles  Elwood ;  or,  the  Xiifttlel  Con 
verted.  By  0.  W.  Brownson. 

Ifi.  Sermons  of  Consolation.  By  F.  W.  P.  Green 
wood,  D.D. 

1«.  Self-Culture.     By  William  EUery  Channing. 

f ».  Christianity,  or  Europe.    By  Novalis. 

£4.  The  Mission  of  the  &ennaii  Catholics. 
By  Prof.  G.  G.  Gcrviims. 

15.  The  ^¥orship  of  Genius,  and  The  Distinc 
tive  Character  or  Essence  of  Chris 
tianity.  By  Prof.  C.  Ullmann. 

f*».  Characteristics  of  Men  of  Genius. 

Morton  &  Chapman,  Printers,  2,  Crane-court,  Fleet-street. 


- 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 
LOAN  DEPT. 


Renewed  books  are  subject  to 


DEC  13 '64-1 PM 


LD  2lA-50m-9,'58 
(6889slO)476B 


General  Library     . 
University  of  California 
Berkeley 


V  O     o  cr  .'  ~ 

Yb   L jo  / 


